The Case of the Heirs
by Lunavere
Summary: Moriarty has returned, and John knows it's only a matter of time before he comes after Sherlock. Stress is at an all-time high when a client comes calling. Sherlock takes the case, and the two are whisked off to an estate in the countryside. Now undercover, John and Sherlock must rekindle their relationship. But can things ever really return as to how they were before? 3 of 3.
1. The Client

**Author's Note: **This is the final installment in my Johnlock series. Hope you enjoy. (Once more, you might have recognized this from before. I had to post this onto my Fanfiction account after some resposting of other works.) Oh, and if you happen to see this story floating about in cyberspace away from my Fanfiction or AO3 account, please report it as stolen and message me immediately.

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Honestly, John was surprised that it had not happened earlier. Their entire world had changed so much in so little time. Moriarty had re-emerged from hiding, broke into the London Tower, gone to trial, and was found not guilty of all charges; for the last two weeks, John had been worrying incessantly about Sherlock since it was only a matter of time before Moriarty came after him. Meanwhile, Sherlock acted as if nothing was different, going about their small cases and his experiments as he always had. Even so, John had managed to play it off and figured he was doing pretty well since Sherlock had yet to call him out on it.

But _this_ had pushed him over the edge. "Sherlock!" he bellowed, yanking a plastic bag out of the fridge. It was the human heart inside of the plastic bag that caused John to snap. Looking up from his microscope, Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. Apparently, the look on John's face was enough to shut him up, because his jaw snapped shut the moment their eyes met. "I can handle eyes in the microwave, thumbs in the vegetable drawer, heads on the shelves, and feet in the oven, but I cannot and will not tolerate hearts, livers, or kidneys anywhere in the house."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, baffled.

"Because those organs can easily be donated and are needed by people all over the world!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock frowned and examined John closely for a long moment. "What is this really about?" he inquired, searching John's face for answers.

"What do you mean, what is this really about?" John snapped, lifting up the plastic bag. "This is about you taking organs that could _save people's lives_ for your bloody experiments, which serve no better purpose than entertaining you for a few days."

"You've been on edge lately," Sherlock responded as his eyes began scanning John's entire body. John knew that Sherlock was not checking him out; he was observing every fine detail. "You tense at every unexpected loud noise. You are always on guard when we are outside; your eyes never linger on one spot for too long. You struggle to fall into a deep sleep because every creak of the floorboards or ratting of the wind against the window signifies a potential danger. You constantly keep tabs on my whereabouts."

John set his jaw and glared at Sherlock. "And what does any of this have to do with the fact that you've moved on to putting life saving organs in our fridge?" he snapped.

"Everything," Sherlock informed him. "If you looked closely, you would realise that there's a bullet hole through the left ventricle, thus rendering it useless for anyone who needed a heart. As a doctor, it should have been obvious to you, but you didn't notice it at all. That tells me one of two things: either you were looking for an excuse to get angry at me or your stress has reached a breaking point. Going by your attitude the last two weeks, it's the latter."

John looked at the heart in the bag and quickly found the hole. Instantly, he felt miserable; he had just snapped at Sherlock for no good reason. To top it all off, it had not made him feel any better. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, tossing the heart carelessly onto the table. He rubbed his eyes, headed into the living room, and sat down on the sofa.

"It's Moriarty, isn't it? You've been like this ever since he was found not guilty," Sherlock said as he stood in the archway, leaning against the wall. John refused to answer. Instead, he covered his eyes with his hands and gently shook his head. "If you're worried about what happened at the pool, John, there's no need to be. I won't let that happen again. I swear to it."

Looking at the consulting detective in disbelief, John responded, "God, Sherlock, it's not – that's not my – I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about _you_."

"Me? Why would you be worried about me?" Sherlock asked, sounding as if that was the strangest thing he's ever heard.

John responded sharply, "Because he's not interested in a former army doctor invalided from Afghanistan. He's interested in a consulting detective who has similar tastes in entertainment!"

"It's fine," Sherlock said confidently. "I know how he works now, John. How he thinks. He won't get the better of me. So there's no reason to be concerned. When he makes his move, I'll know how to counter."

Sighing, John responded, "How can you be sure? He's gotten the better of you before."

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed.

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you were expecting for him to kidnap me and strap a bomb to my chest?" he pressed, knowing Sherlock would be trapped between either making him mad or fessing to his mistake.

Sherlock scowled as he realised what John had done as well. "It won't happen again," he snapped.

"What won't? Strapping a bomb to me? Or getting the better of you?" John inquired.

Glancing back at his microscope, Sherlock muttered, "Both."

"What was that? I couldn't hear you," John said, unable to keep the smile from his face.

Sherlock frowned at him. "You heard me. I'm never going to say that again."

"Just – just be careful," John responded, resorting back to the sombre aspect of their conversation. "And don't be stubborn about it. There's no honour lost in needing help, you know."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock countered, "Who could possibly help me?"

John did not even flinch at his flatmate's response. "I don't know," he confessed. "But if you figure it out, promise me that you'll ask for help."

"Fine, John. In the completely unlikely case that I would need help from someone, I swear to you that I will go that person and ask for it," Sherlock responded. John could hear the sarcasm in his voice. Of course Sherlock would believe that he would never need help from anyone. Even so, having the promise relieved John a bit. Sherlock did a lot of things, but breaking promises was not one of them. Suddenly, Sherlock asked, "So shall we have sex now?

John laughed as he heard this, somehow still taken aback by Sherlock's bluntness. "What on Earth made you believe that would be a good suggestion?" he inquired, genuinely interested.

"You're still stressed, and sex is proven to relieve stress along with a host of other health benefits," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, walking towards him.

Picking up the newspaper on the coffee table in front of him, John replied, "I'm not in the mood, Sherlock." Sherlock ignored him, sliding onto the sofa next to him. Staring at the newspaper, John pretended not to feel the soft, warm lips that pressed against his neck. He shifted a bit when he felt a small nip at his Adam's apple, and he silently cursed Sherlock for memorising every erogenous zone on his body. "Lestrade invited me out for a couple pints. Would you like to come as well?" he inquired nonchalantly, figuring Sherlock would turn him down in a second.

The reaction he got was much more violent than he expected. Sherlock hit the newspaper out of John's hands, shoving him back onto the sofa. Startled, John went to protest only for his words to be swallowed by a fierce kiss. Their tongues tangled as Sherlock explored John's mouth. John went to shove Sherlock back only for his hands to be intercepted and their fingers intertwined. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock grind against him, and he couldn't keep himself from moaning. John felt a rush of urgency shoot straight to his groin.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson called out. Before either Sherlock or John could react, she gasped out, "Oh, dear!"

Flushing with embarrassment, John jerked his head to the side and broke the kiss. He quickly leaned forward, pushing his body against Sherlock's, in order to sit up. Sherlock pulled back to let him and snapped, "I believe you can see we're in the middle of something, Mrs Hudson."

"Yes," she murmured. John could see the mixture of horror and pride on her face. Their eyes met, and she gave John a small wink. "Sorry, boys," she said before slipping out of the flat and closing the door.

John groaned and rubbed his face. He could practically feel the heat radiating off it. "What was that all about?" he asked.

"I want to get back to what we were just doing," Sherlock answered, leaning back in to give John another kiss.

Raising a hand, John kept Sherlock from moving in any closer. "That's not what I was referring to," he retorted. "I was talking about your reaction when I brought up going out for a few pints with Lestrade."

Suddenly, the door opened again, and Mrs Hudson popped her head in, "Does this mean that you won't be needing two beds anymore?"

"Mrs Hudson!" John and Sherlock exclaimed at the same time, both looking back at her. She squeaked and quickly shut the door again. This time, they waited in silence until they heard Mrs Hudson descend the stairs.

Looking back at Sherlock, John pressed, "Now tell me."

"You brought up Lestrade after I kissed your neck," Sherlock stated curtly, as if that should make everything obvious.

John didn't follow. "So?" he inquired.

Eyes darkening, Sherlock responded, "Thoughts usually generate themselves in streams, which means that feeling a kiss on your neck reminded you of Lestrade."

Blinking, John stared at Sherlock for a long moment as he processed this information. Had Sherlock really deduced from a question that John either had secret feelings for Lestrade or a history with the Detective Inspector? "Sherlock, are you jealous?" he asked, unable to keep himself from smiling.

"Of course not," Sherlock answered a bit too sharply, turning in order to avoid John's gaze.

John chuckled under his breath. "You're right, you know."

"Of course I am," Sherlock stated, and John noticed a flicker of hurt flash across his face. "I'm always right."

Placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, John explained, "I wasn't in the mood, so I was searching for something to ruin your mood as well. I remembered what Lestrade said, so in an attempt to change the conversation, I brought it up. I didn't realise you would misinterpret the reasoning behind my statement, though."

Sherlock's eyes locked onto John's, and he patiently waited until Sherlock observed everything he needed. After a moment, he relaxed back into the sofa. "Oh," he muttered noncommittally.

"Although I must admit I'm rather flattered you think anything could happen between me and him. Lestrade's a handsome man," John jested, nudging Sherlock a bit.

Very seriously, Sherlock answered, "Nothing will ever come of it. He has yet to get over his ex-wife, and I have never noticed him to have any interest in men. Molly has a better chance of dating him than you do." With that, John realised it was the secret feelings theory that had Sherlock worried.

"I wouldn't date him even if he did offer," John responded honestly, ducking his head in order to catch Sherlock's gaze again. He found it surprisingly human of Sherlock to experience emotions like jealousy, and he couldn't help but be proud of the fact that he had been the one to cause them. "Relationships really aren't your area, are they?"

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock snapped, "Shut up and make me some tea."

"Alright, alright," he muttered, throwing up his hands and rising from the sofa. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock grab his wrist. He turned back and felt a slight pull down. Smiling softly, John knew exactly what Sherlock wanted, so he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. Sherlock might never verbalise it, but John knew he was looking for a small confirmation that John was still his. As soon as John pulled back, Sherlock released his wrist. He laid down on the sofa, pressing his hands together and resting them under his chin, and John headed into the kitchen. Seeing the heart on the table, he picked it up and carefully put it back into the veggie drawer.

"So what should we tell Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock abruptly asked.

John filled the kettle with water as he tried to figure out what Sherlock was referring to. Eyes widening, he looked back into the living room to find Sherlock laying on the couch with his eyes closed as if nothing in particular was happening. Feigning ignorance, John turned back to the kettle and set it on the stove. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't see any reason we shouldn't share a bedroom," Sherlock informed him. John dropped the cup he had just grabbed from a cabinet, and it shattered across the floor. "You alright?" he asked, actually opening his eyes.

John glanced around for a broom and dustpan. "Yeah, fine," he managed to answer as he searched.

"A bit of an overreaction to my statement, don't you think?" Sherlock asked.

Grabbing the broom, John responded, "And you can hardly blame me. I mean, you took me completely off-guard!"

"That wasn't my intention," Sherlock replied, and John knew that was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get. "Even so, I don't see a problem with us sharing a bedroom now. I hardly ever use the bedroom now, so it wouldn't be too much different than it currently is. And isn't this a normal step in a relationship?"

John shook his head and said, "You're inferring that our relationship is 'normal.'"

"I'm implying," Sherlock corrected. "You're inferring."

Rolling his eyes, John turned back to the kettle. "My point still stands."

"As does mine," Sherlock noted. "I wouldn't really mind, you know. And it would hassle Mrs Hudson less."

John scoffed. "As if you care about what hassles Mrs Hudson," he pointed out, chuckling under his breath. The kettle finally whistled, and he pulled it off the stovetop. "But since you're playing on my sense of compassion, I take it that means you want me to share your bedroom."

"Infer all you want," Sherlock answered vaguely, his lips twitching ever so slightly into a smile. "I'm just saying that I wouldn't object to such an arrangement. It's logical, after all."

Shaking his head, John replied, "I'll think about it." He grabbed the tea out of a cabinet and plucked out two teabags.

"Have you checked the website today for clients?" Sherlock inquired, swiftly changing the conversation.

John glanced back into the living room. "No," he answered honestly. "I'll check when the tea is done."

"Don't bother," Sherlock responded, getting up and heading over to John's laptop. "I'll check for myself."

Smirking, John said, "I changed the password again."

Sherlock chuckled. "Time me," he challenged, opening John's laptop. As John finished preparing the tea, Sherlock sat in front of John's laptop and stared at it. John brought the tea tray over to the table and had just set it down when Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation. He quickly ticked away at the keys and laughed when the log-in melody rang out.

John laughed as well when he heard the jingle. "Took you longer than a minute," he pointed out.

"Yes, well, I wasn't expecting for you to make it so personal," Sherlock responded, grinning. "Really, though. 'PissOffSherlock'? I thought you would be a bit more mature."

Picking up his cup of tea, John answered, "I would be once you stop logging onto my personal laptop and start using your own."

"Mine's always so far away," Sherlock told him, not looking up.

John rolled his eyes and smiled behind his teacup. By now, he was beyond caring if Sherlock logged onto his laptop or not, but it had become a sort of game between the two for John to change his password to something ridiculous and for Sherlock to figure out what it was. John had yet to win a round. Suddenly, Sherlock straightened in his seat, and John recognised the look of interest on his face. "What is it?" he pressed.

"A potential client," Sherlock answered, absentmindedly reaching out for his teacup. John shifted it so it touched Sherlock's searching fingers. Grasping the cup, Sherlock brought it up to his lips and took a quick sip. "He claims he's going to be killed by the end of the week… and he's offering a substantial amount of money."

John said, "You aren't motivated by money."

"It is a rather nice bonus, though," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly, his eyes still scanning over the text. John frowned as he heard this, finding it strange that money would interest Sherlock all of a sudden. Even so, he knew better than to pursue the topic; Sherlock would probably never give him a straight answer. "Yes, I think this will do nicely. It's at least a five – possibly a six – and I don't know how much longer I can stand it without another case. We should call this man and invite him over to speak about this further."

Nodding, John paused a moment to take another sip of tea. "And by 'we,' you actually mean me."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, not looking away from the computer screen.

"Right," John muttered, searching for his mobile. Sherlock promptly held it out to him. Taking it, John turned the screen in order to see the contact number and began punching in the digits as he continued, "You aren't just going to snatch this out of my hands once I've finished dialling the number, are you?"

Smiling, Sherlock gently placed his hand over John's, covering the mobile. John looked up in surprise before he felt Sherlock's lithe fingers wrap around the mobile. He rolled his eyes as Sherlock gently plucked the phone out of his hands. Sherlock then took a moment to stare down at the number and nodded. "His name is Isaac Witherspoon," he said before dropping the mobile back in John's hands. John scowled, knowing Sherlock had taken it only to aggravate him. "Problem?" Sherlock asked challengingly.

"Not at all," John responded, hitting the dial button. He raised the phone to his ear and felt Sherlock loom over him, shadowing him. When he heard an older man's voice greet him, he said, "Goo afternoon, Mr Witherspoon. This is John Watson. I'm responding to your message on my website earlier today."

"Ah, yes, I'm very pleased to hear from you, Mr Watson," Mr Witherspoon said.

Smiling, John continued, "We would like for you to come down to 221B Baker Street to talk to us further about your case as soon as it is convenient for you."

"I'll be on my way then," Mr Witherspoon answered. "I will see you soon, Mr Watson."

"Goodbye, Mr Witherspoon," John responded before hanging up the phone. Sherlock, who had been standing right behind John the entire time, clicked his tongue in annoyance. "If you wanted to demand for him to get here sooner than immediately, you should have made the call."

Sherlock did not respond. Instead, he picked up his tea cup and promptly flopped into his chair. Taking a sip out of tea, he then leaned back and looked around the flat. John drank his tea in silence as well, sitting at the table instead. Part of him wondered if he should pick up a bit before Mr Witherspoon arrived. He decided against it, knowing it would prompt Sherlock to ridicule him. Besides, there probably wasn't enough time to make a dent in all the rubbish around the house. So they spent their time in silence as they sometimes did, neither saying a word as they enjoyed each other's company. Eventually, the doorbell ringing disturbed their peaceful silence. They listened as Mrs Hudson answered the door, spoke to someone, and then escorted him up to the flat. A light rapping on the door signalled their arrival, and John looked up just as the door opened. An older man stood in the doorway in a tailored, three-piece suit. Wrinkles and laugh lines outlined his face, and his salt-and-pepper hair marked the stress he must experience in his life. Of course, John knew that Sherlock was gleaming three times the information he was in the very same moment.

Rising to his feet, John greeted, "Mr Witherspoon, it's a pleasure. Please, sit." He motioned to his chair as he stood next to Sherlock.

Mr Witherspoon nodded, glancing a bit disdainfully around the flat, and headed over to the chair. As soon as he sat down, he looked at Sherlock. "I take it you are Mr Sherlock Holmes," he stated. He was examining Sherlock carefully, as if he was no longer sure that he had made the correct choice.

"I'll be doing the deducing," Sherlock answered curtly. "I would like for you to tell me about your case in more detail. Quickly. And make it interesting."

Mr Witherspoon cleared his throat. "I'm not a paranoid man by nature. Even so, I feel that there have been several attempts on my life in the last couple of weeks," he began to explain. Sherlock began to fidget, and John placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently as a silent warning to remain quiet. "I am a man of wealth, yes, but I thought my family was loving. My wife and I have been together for 25 years, my eldest son is just two years away from inheriting the company, and my daughter just started her own successful law firm with my help. And yet I know that one of them is trying to kill me."

"What makes you so certain, sir?" John pressed, hoping the reason would pique Sherlock's interest since he had seemed to lose it during the explanation.

Mr Witherspoon answered, "There just have been too many 'coincidences' lately. I was almost hit by a vehicle five days ago. Just over a week ago, I became mysteriously ill for two days and was almost hospitalised."

"And what happened yesterday?" Sherlock pressed.

Clearly surprised, Mr Witherspoon echoed, "Yesterday?"

"Yes, yesterday. Clearly something must have happened for you to be here now. After all, most people get sick every once and a while. Depending on your family's medical history and your own, it is entirely possible that you became so sick that you needed to be hospitalised. As for the car, it was an isolated incident, was it not? It happens. It hardly means that you're being hunted down. And you said yourself that you are not paranoid. Therefore, something must have happened. Considering we only got the message today and the urgency of your situation, it could have only happened yesterday," Sherlock explained, sounding rather smug at the end. "So, explain."

Mr Witherspoon remained indifferent during Sherlock's thorough insight, but John knew that a glimpse of Sherlock's intellectual prowess would convince the client that he had come to the right people. After a moment's hesitation, he answered, "I drove to work a couple days ago and felt that there was something wrong with the car. When I had a mechanic check it yesterday, he said that there was a hole cut into my break line. It was basically a time bomb waiting to happen. If I had been driving too quickly at the time or in the city, I would have been unable to stop. It basically guaranteed that I would get into an accident."

"Why not go to the police?" John inquired.

Mr Witherspoon laughed in response, much to John's surprise. "Because the police have no idea what the word 'discretion' means. I cannot have whoever is doing this know that I am aware of their plot," he answered matter-of-factly. After a moment's pause, he added, "And I need a man who I know will find out who is behind this. I believe you are the only man for the job."

"And my payment?" he inquired.

Eyes widening, Mr Witherspoon responded, "It still stands at that number, and I will give you half upfront as a good will gesture. I'll double it if you catch the person before they succeed in killing me."

"If we catch the person before they kill you?" John echoed, baffled.

Mr Witherspoon smiled softly. "That's correct. If. I'm no fool, Mr Watson. Everyone's time on this Earth is limited, and I have come to terms with my potential death. Even so, I do not wish to die, which is why I'm offering double if you solve this before the person succeeds."

"And you believe one of your close family members is behind this? Why?" John pressed.

Mr Witherspoon simply responded, "Inheritance. I'm a wealthy man, and they'll receive a lot once I pass. It's the only possible motivation."

"Wrong," Sherlock cut in, and John shot him a look. He pressed his lips together in distaste and shifted in his chair. "In any case, consider us hired."

John blinked in surprise as he heard this. After all, Sherlock had not come off as particularly interested in this case, and Sherlock never did anything that didn't interest him. Mr Witherspoon, on the other hand, was clearly very relieved. Pulling out a check from his jacket pocket, he filled it out right in front of them before signing it and handing it over to Sherlock. "Here's your first payment," he stated, handing the check over to Sherlock, who plucked it out of his hand and quickly tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"I'll start working on your case immediately," Sherlock stated. "We will remain discrete, which will require for us to have no contact with your family unless you have a way for us to meet them without raising suspicion."

Mr Witherspoon smiled. "I do, as a matter of fact, as long as neither of you mind leaving your flat for the length of this case," he replied.

"Not at all," Sherlock responded immediately. "I could do with a bit of fresh air."

Nodding, Mr Witherspoon rose to his feet. "Very good. I will be sending a car for you noon tomorrow," he said matter-of-factly. "My driver will bring you to my estate, where I will fill you in on the details of your stay. I will see you both tomorrow."

"Good afternoon, sir," John quickly said. Mr Witherspoon turned and left the flat without another word. After hearing the front door close, John turned and asked, "You're taking the case?"

"That is just what happened, yes. Do keep up, John," Sherlock drawled, standing up.

John frowned. "I cannot imagine that you found that case even remotely interesting," he pointed out challengingly. "The Sherlock Holmes I know would have turned that case down in a second, man's life on the line or not."

"It's interesting enough for me to leave the house," Sherlock replied. "Besides, we have nothing else on right now."

John didn't believe him for a second. "You're not going to tell me the real reason behind taking this case, are you?" he asked.

Grinning back at him, Sherlock answered, "You're an intelligent man. I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out by yourself someday." And with that, he headed into the kitchen to play with his microscope. John felt uneasy about this case, but he was relieved that it would be something low profile for once. Not only that, but it would get them out of the flat; maybe he wouldn't worry about Moriarty so much.


	2. The Arrival

As promised, the driver arrived at noon sharp. Although Sherlock insisted that he would have the case solved in a day, possibly two, John forced him to pack for a week just in case. They quickly loaded their two bags into the boot, said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, and piled into the vehicle. Both of them sat in silence, gazing out opposite windows, the only thing connecting them is their hands sitting right next to each other, pinkies brushing against each other. John watched as London passed them by and then disappeared behind them.

Suddenly, Sherlock noted, "It's doubtful that he would follow us all the way out here."

"I know," John said a little too quickly.

Leaning closer, Sherlock whispered, "So relax."

At hearing those words, John leaned back into his seat and released the tension from his body. Although it only was for a day or two, he didn't have to worry about Moriarty. Even Sherlock thought so. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the headrest. Almost instantly, fatigue washed over him. John had not slept well since Moriarty's release, his mind constantly on guard for anything. Shifting uncomfortably, he turned away from Sherlock towards the window for a moment before twisting back around. He slowly began to drift off, the vibrations from the car lulling him to sleep. It felt that he had only closed his eyes for a few moments before he heard Sherlock calmly calling out his name. Waking up, John found himself leaning against Sherlock. He jerked back, glancing up at the driver to see if he noticed.

"How long was I-?" he began to ask.

Sherlock quickly cut him off, "About an hour and a half. Yes, of course the driver noticed, although I don't know why you care. And we're here, if that's wasn't obvious by now."

John looked out to see a small, countryside manor. It had a somewhat more modern look with its red bricks, red roof, large windows, and garage. Large, cobblestone steps led up to the front door, and the garden was immaculate. "Beautiful," he breathed.

"Hardly. Interesting, though, yes," Sherlock replied before he opened the car door and got out.

John followed suit. "What do you mean?"

"This is modern architecture, look at the brickwork and windows. Not only that, but there are no signs of any stables and they have a garage. That means the family most likely did not inherit the property, which tells us that the family's wealth was probably self-made within the last one to two generations. My guess would be two," Sherlock explained, his eyes scanning the estate. "Although their garden is in great shape, they only have two gardeners. Then they've hit hard times, most likely due to the recession. So their money comes from a business. So far, so obvious."

Shaking his head, John muttered, "Sure. Obvious."

"As ever, you see, John, but you don't observe," Sherlock chided him a bit teasingly as they headed up the stairs.

They reached the top, and the front doors burst open. Appearing thrilled to see them, Mr Witherspoon rushed out of the house and held his arms wide open. "John Watson, it's been much too long!" he exclaimed happily, pulling John into a hug.

After a moment's hesitation, John realised that this must be part of their cover-up. He quickly replied, "It has been much too long! But it's good to see you again, even after all this time."

"And this must be Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure. John's told me a lot about you," Mr Witherspoon continued, pulling back from John and offering his hand.

Sherlock forced a smile and shook it. "Pleasure," he managed to say.

John looked back to find a woman in a standing in the doorway. Her brunette hair was streaked with a touch of grey, and her brown eyes were warm and inviting. Looking back to see what John was looking at, Mr Witherspoon smiled. "Emily, my dear, come here!" he beckoned. She smiled warmly and approached them. "John Watson, this is my lovely wife, Emily. Emily, this is my former colleague, John Watson."

"A pleasure to meet you finally," John stated, reaching out to shake her hand.

Shaking it, Mrs Witherspoon replied, "Isaac's been so excited that you could come out to visit. Says you haven't been able to really see each other since your university years."

"Yes, well, the army will do that to you," John responded and forced a smile to his face.

Mrs Witherspoon turned and added, "And this must be your partner, Mr Holmes."

John's breath hitched as he heard this, and he looked up at Sherlock with wide, shocked eyes. Sherlock, on the other hand, acted as if nothing was amiss. "Indeed, I am. It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, smiling warmly as he shook her hand.

"We're honoured to have you here," Mrs Witherspoon told them. "Isaac could hardly contain his excitement once you confirmed that you were coming. It's a nasty bit of business with the tabloids, though. I'm sure no one will find you out here."

Smiling, John replied, "We're in your debt for hosting us on such short notice."

"After everything you've done for Isaac, I feel like it's the least we could do," she answered kindly. "I must get back to preparing dinner. Please join us at the table at six. I'm sure my husband will give you the grand tour."

Nodding, John turned back to Mr Witherspoon and followed him into the manor. The first room they entered was the foyer, which was open with a staircase leading up before splitting apart to head down two main wings. Not climbing the stairs, they immediately made a sharp left from the foyer into a den. A maple wood desk sat before them. Two chairs sat directly in front of them with one chair sitting behind the desk. Shelves of books covered every wall, leaving little of the brown wallpaper to be seen. Behind the desk was a portrait of an older man, and John quickly saw the physical similarities between the portrait and Mr Witherspoon.

"My father," Mr Witherspoon said, noticing John's lingering gaze. "Robert Witherspoon." He walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down, motioning for them to join him. As they both took their seats, he continued, "But I doubt you're interested in hearing about him."

Sherlock responded, "Quite correct. It's an interesting cover you have going for us here. Are you sure that your family will not suspect anything?"

"I assure you that they will not suspect a thing," Mr Witherspoon answered. "After all, I fell out of touch with John when he went on his first tour, although we had gotten along splendidly beforehand. Years passed, and he eventually slipped into the recesses of my mind. It was only when I saw his name in the paper that I remembered what great mates we used to be, and I thought I would give him a call. We caught up, and I heard about this problems with the tabloids, so it was only natural that I invite him up for a week getaway from London. After all, he had helped me so much in Uni during my troubled times just after my father passed."

John pressed, "And Sherlock?"

"Well, I had just assumed," Mr Witherspoon said, clearly surprised that this would be an issue. "I apologise if this causes either of you any discomfort, but it would make more sense for your partner to come with you as opposed to your flatmate."

"It will be of no issue," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. John shot a look at him that he refused to acknowledge. "I am also assuming that we will be sharing a bedroom."

"A guest suite in the west wing," Mr Witherspoon elaborated, rising to his feet. "Shall we?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, rising to his feet as well.

John got up after a moment's hesitation, his mind still whirling with all this information. He and Sherlock would now have to act like a couple. It's not as if they weren't a couple, of course, but they had kept everything relatively quiet on John's behest. Although Sherlock had not cared, John felt that their private life should stay separate from their public one. So only Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft knew for sure, all due to separate reasons; Anderson, Donovan, and Harry suspected but weren't sure. Other than that, everyone just assumed that they were just flatmates. The ones who suspected more between them were left with their suspicions completely unfounded; neither commented on their relationship. Here, though, their entire deception hung on the fact that they were a _traditional_ couple. John felt like he had a ticking time bomb strapped to his chest.

They exited the den and headed up the stairs. Just as they reached the top, Mr Witherspoon opened the door to allow them through and explained, "Directly across the foyer is the dining room. The west wing is strictly for guests while the east wing is for my family. Obviously, you may explore the grounds and manor as you please, but be mindful when in the east wing. You will cause a commotion if you're found in there. Your luggage should already be up in your room. It's the third door to the left."

"Thank you," John said, giving a curt nod as he headed into the hall. Sherlock said nothing and followed close behind. Walking down three doors, John turned left and opened the door to their room. Their luggage sat at the foot of a king-sized bed. Maple furniture complemented the floors and honey-coloured walls. White curtains did nothing to keep the sunshine out of the room, but they tied in well with the white comforter and sheets. "God, this looks like a honeymoon suite," John muttered, looking over to see a door that most likely led to a private bath.

Sherlock closed the door behind them. "Honeymoon suite?" he echoed.

"A honeymoon is a vacation that a newlywed couple goes on," John clarified. Sherlock looked at him in confusion, as if he was trying to understand why John would feel that they were on a honeymoon of all things. "I was joking, of course."

"No you weren't," Sherlock stated as he headed towards the bed. John's breath hitched as he heard this, and he looked over at Sherlock with wide eyes. "Should we talk about it?"

Shaking his head, John responded, "There's nothing to talk about. I was merely commenting on the beauty of the room."

"In reference to a honeymoon, which means you've thought about this before," Sherlock replied.

Playing dumb, John asked, "Thought about what?"

"Thought about us. About marriage," Sherlock answered, humouring him. "You must know that I don't believe in the institution of marriage."

"I know," John cut in, knowing he did not want to talk about this.

Sherlock continued as if he had not said a thing. "The word 'marriage' can be traced to the Latin word _marītāre__, _which means 'to provide with a husband or wife.' Actually, the adjective-"

"Sherlock!" John snapped, not in the mood for a history lesson.

Frowning, Sherlock continued, "Marriage predates recorded history, but I believe it's fairly obvious even to the common rabble the original purpose behind it."

"Get to your point," John ordered.

Sherlock turned to face him and said, "Marriage is nothing more than a ceremony and a piece of paper. It changes nothing except for the participants' perceptions and expectations of the relationship and give the couple some tax benefits. It's the very definition of superfluity."

"As I said before, Sherlock, I know," John said sharply. This time, he managed to capture Sherlock's attention. Blinking in surprise, Sherlock stared at him. "Yes, I have entertained the thought. It's only natural. I also dismissed it almost immediately. I knew there would be no way to get you to marry me. Even posing the question in my imagination made me laugh. But I've realised that it's fine. It's fine if we never get married, if the common-law marriage never kicks in, and if we die without having a written contract between us. Because I know that our relationship isn't defined by it. It will never be defined by it. You'll act the same no matter what, and I'll do the same."

Observing John for a long moment, Sherlock noted, "But you would prefer if we got legally married."

"I would, but I'll be just fine if we never do," John answered honestly. It's not like there was any point in lying to Sherlock.

After a long moment, Sherlock replied, "I'll reconsider the proposition, although I doubt my opinion will change."

That was just as good as a love proclamation from Sherlock. Smiling softly, John reached down to grab his luggage only for a hand to catch his own. He looked up and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock leaned down and gently pressed his lips against John's. Straightening up, John cupped Sherlock's left cheek with his hand and nibbled at his lower lip. Sherlock obliged, opening his mouth and flicking John's tongue with his own. John's tongue surged into Sherlock's mouth, which still tasted like the tea he had drank that morning on John's behest. Before he could enjoy it too much, Sherlock forced him to retreat and took over the kiss. John felt his body get rocked by want and need; at almost the exact same time, he felt Sherlock grind against him, and the delicious friction made him moan. Sherlock grabbed his arms and began walking, making sure not to break the kiss. After a few steps, John felt the bed press into the back of his legs. He broke the kiss and licked his still tingling lips.

"Really? Here? Now?" he inquired. Their physical relationship had always been put on hold during any and all cases; John found this out during the "Falls of the Reichenbach" case when he felt an overwhelming urge for Sherlock and acted on it. After initially responding, Sherlock pulled away and explained to him that when they were on a case, they could not be giving into carnal hungers. Sherlock needed his mind to focus only on the case, and having sex with John was considered a distraction. Although John did not mind, it also left them with very little time for sex. And here they were, on a case, and _Sherlock_ was initiating everything.

Shoving him down onto the bed, Sherlock responded, "You were the one who made the honeymoon reference. Isn't this what newlyweds generally do on their honeymoon?"

"We're on a case," John pointed out breathlessly, watching Sherlock lean down. Lips ghosted over his Adam's apple, and John moaned when he felt Sherlock knead him through his trousers.

Sherlock's lips hovered just over John's skin as he answered, "On a case as a couple. They might find it strange if we hardly touch each other." He then pressed light kisses down John's neck, his hands pulling at John's jumper.

"They might find it even more baffling and completely inappropriate if we shag like bunnies while we're here," John pointed out weakly, one of his hands running through Sherlock's hair.

In one swift movement, Sherlock pulled John's jumper up, successfully leaving his upper torso naked. Flicking at one nipple with his tongue, Sherlock looked up at him with heated eyes and pressed, "Are you objecting to continuing then?"

"God, no," John barely managed to croak out.

Smirking, Sherlock latched onto John's neck once more, licking and nipping it light enough to not leave any marks. Meanwhile, his hands went to work on John's trousers. As Sherlock tugged them down, John went to work on unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. He was not about to be the only one of them naked. Just as he slid the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, John gasped as Sherlock's long, lithe fingers slid into his pants and wrapped around his aching erection. Sherlock's mouth had already moved, gently trailing kisses and loving nips down John's chest. John ran a hand through Sherlock's hair and stroked Sherlock's cheek with the other one. Pulling away, Sherlock leaned back up and placed a chaste kiss on John's lips.

"Shall we?" Sherlock inquired, his hands hesitating at his belt.

Hesitating a moment, John replied, "God knows I don't want to stop, but we're here for a _case_, Sherlock. We haven't even eliminated one suspect from the list, and a man's life is hanging in the balance."

"Oh, come on, John," Sherlock chided, grinding slowly against him. John bit back a moan, refusing to give Sherlock the satisfaction. "We would have wound up piddling away the time until dinner anyway. And even you must admit that this is much more interesting than watching telly."

John clawed at the sheets underneath him in an attempt to ground himself. Sherlock was still grinding against him, and that delicious friction almost made him completely forget about everything else. "But the case," John barely managed to object.

Sherlock clicked his tongue in annoyance. "What if I told you I already ruled the wife out? Would your internal moral struggle stop then?" he asked, his tone a bit sharp.

"Yes," John breathed out, wanting nothing more than to believe that they had managed to take a step forward in the case before fucking each other senseless. "How?" he choked out as Sherlock gave him a particularly hard grind.

Fumbling with his belt, Sherlock quickly explained, "When we first arrived, I noticed the state of the house. Isaac Witherspoon is rich but he is currently having financial difficulties. This is known by Mrs Witherspoon. Her jewellery was beautiful, yes, but cubic zirconium, meaning she probably pawned off what she could in order to upkeep the appearance in front of her children, who most likely do not know about their current troubles. Sentiment would keep the parents from saying anything about their financial issues. Not only that, but her dress has been re-hemmed at least three times, meaning she's keeping up appearances but not purchasing any new clothes. And since her most likely motivation would to be to inherit money, she is left without a motive to kill him." By the time he finished, he had managed to pull down his trousers, pants, and John's pants. John was left completely exposed and in utter need of Sherlock's touch. "Besides, she does sincerely love him. Is that good enough?"

"Yes, more than good enough," John said, knowing that if Sherlock thought the wife was no longer a suspect then he was probably right. Leaning up, John was surprised when Sherlock shoved him back down. "What-?" he began to ask.

Smirking, Sherlock answered, "Tsk, tsk. I believe it's my turn."

John groaned. After a particularly nasty argument about to proceed with the night, Sherlock and he had decided on a turn-based system of who would be in charge. John had agreed only because he knew that Sherlock would take over every time if he hadn't; John would have let him. Last time had indeed been his turn, so now it was Sherlock's. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Get into the middle of the bed and stay on all fours," Sherlock ordered.

Obeying, John clambered onto the bed and flipped over, on his hands and knees with his arse to Sherlock. He heard the sound of a zipper opening, and he glanced back to find Sherlock rustling through his luggage. A moment later, Sherlock smirked and pulled back a container of lube. "You came prepared?" John asked incredulously.

"Oh, hush," Sherlock replied, opening the container and squeezing some onto his right hand. "You're about to appreciate the fact that I did."

John didn't even have the time to respond before he felt a finger circle his entrance and slipped in. Crooking his finger, Sherlock rubbed his prostate expertly, and John appreciated that he had memorised exactly where it was. Moaning, John reached down and gave himself slow, strong strokes in order to appease his aching need. Sherlock slipped a second finger in and shifted to loom over John. Out of the blue, John felt soft kisses and nips being sprinkled across his back. He moaned aloud, letting Sherlock hear his appreciation. A third finger was inserted, and John felt a slight burn as he was stretched that much further. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock gently trace out his scar from his gunshot wound with his other hand. He shivered and went to object only to then feel a pair of lips press against it. Head snapping up, John glanced back.

"To think that none of this would have happened had you not been shot," Sherlock muttered, almost to himself.

John debated on commenting, but that was before he felt Sherlock rub his prostate once more. He let out a moan and his arm trembled in an attempt to keep him up as his other hand kept stroking himself. Without warning, Sherlock removed his fingers, and John heard the rip of a condom package before seeing another condom tossed up to him. He let out a sigh of relief; he would not have been looking forward to trying to explain to their host and client why they needed new sheets so soon after arrival. He fumbled a moment before managing to roll the condom halfway down. A moment later, John felt the tip of Sherlock's erection press into him. He began stroking himself faster as he felt the burn of being slowly filled. Once Sherlock was in to the hilt, they both paused a moment; Sherlock silently waited until John gave a nod. Once he did, Sherlock pulled almost entirely out of him before slowly re-entering. After several more slow, rhythmic thrusts, John felt like he was going to go insane. It just wasn't _enough_.

"Sherlock, please," John managed to say, bucking back a bit. "Harder."

Once he heard this, Sherlock slammed back in forcefully. John moaned loudly from the sharp spike of pleasure that rippled up his spine, his arm giving out, and went crashing into the mattress. Sherlock's fingers dug into his hips as he gripped John firmly, and John was sure he would have bruises on his hips from Sherlock's vice grip. Slamming into him roughly again and again, Sherlock somehow managed to hit or brush John's prostate every time. Pleasure overwhelmed him in the matter of seconds, and John writhed and moaned as he was fucked into the mattress. Only Sherlock could make such a mess of him so quickly. Breathing now ragged, he could feel himself getting closer to the edge with every thrust. He had always liked it a bit rough, something Sherlock had caught onto in no time at all and had always managed to oblige ever since. With a turn of his wrist, a swipe at the tip, and a couple strokes later, John unravelled completely. He cried out Sherlock's name as his entire body tensed, his back arching and his toes curling. A few moments later, Sherlock came as well, John's name on his lips.

Both collapsed onto the mattress, each breathless and in post-coital bliss. Still on his stomach, John smiled into the mattress as he felt the tension leave his body. He suddenly felt a hand gently stroke down his spine, and he looked over to find Sherlock staring right at him. Sherlock's hair was dishevelled, his breathing still a bit heavy, and perspiration made his body glisten just a bit in the sunlight. His calculating icy blue eyes were observing him, probably taking everything into account so Sherlock could know later if John preferred facing him while they had sex or if he didn't mind being taken from behind. As always, John said nothing. Sherlock never asked what he preferred because he enjoyed trying everything in order to figure it out. After a long moment, Sherlock slowly locked his eyes onto John's, causing John to offer him a small smile. Sherlock grinned back in return.

"We should get cleaned up before dinner," John pointed out after a while.

Sherlock responded, "Yes, yes. We wouldn't want Mrs Witherspoon to regret marrying her husband instead of you, after all."

"Me and Mrs Witherspoon? No, no, our real concern is you and the daughter. There's no doubt in my mind that she'd begin flirting with you in a minute if you don't get yourself all sorted out," John informed him. "What with your cheekbones and looking so cool in front of others – when you're not being an arse, I mean."

Sherlock grinned and inquired, "Should we shower together then?"

"Oh, God, yes," John answered, unable to keep himself from smiling back.


	3. The Dinner

"And that's the point when I had to break it to him that I was married and most definitely not interested," Mr Witherspoon exclaimed, laughing heartily. "I have never seen a man more disappointed in my entire life! I think he had most definitely planned to become my lover so he could live comfortably without having to work a day in his life."

John forced a smile to his face. He knew that the Witherspoons were just trying to make them feel comfortable, but it was somewhat irritating that the family was completely hooked up on the fact that Sherlock and he were in a relationship. "Yes, well, I do hope that you don't believe all gays are like that," he commented, letting the insinuation stand. He wasn't about to tell people he barely knew that he had believed he was straight until he met Sherlock. Besides, that would have just started up an entirely new and extremely uncomfortable situation.

Sherlock pointed out, "It would be utterly ignorant of him to believe such a thing. It would be like saying that all Jews were the same or Asians or women. Then again, it's just as ignorant to believe that a person only wants to talk about one subject because they-" Quickly, John fastened his hand painfully on Sherlock's knee in an attempt to silence him. It didn't work. "- turn out to be that."

John closed his eyes, hoping that they would miss the jab Sherlock had just made. After all, they were their hosts; they didn't need them to be angered on the first day. It would only prove to be an obstacle in their investigation. The awkward silence that followed, however, informed him that they had caught on. After a long moment, Mrs Witherspoon broke the silence by kindly asking, "Could you pass me the salt, Mr Holmes?"

Out of habit, John reached forward first and grabbed both the salt and pepper shakers. He held them out to Sherlock, who just looked down at them. A moment of silence passed, and John looked over to see what was taking him so long. "She just requested the salt," Sherlock pointed out.

"It's manners to pass both," John responded, feeling the need to enlighten Sherlock about proper table manners. He had probably deleted them the moment he heard them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes when he heard that. "How utterly pointless. Why would someone pass both when there was only a request for one?" he asked, sounding utterly baffled by the idea.

"You know what? Forget it," John snapped, standing up and leaning forward in order to hand Mrs Witherspoon the salt and pepper himself. "I apologise for my-" he paused a second, trying to find the proper word to describe Sherlock, "-partner. He doesn't do well in social situations."

"Rude," Sherlock muttered under his breath, and John smiled softly as he heard this. It was nice to get under Sherlock's skin every now and again as well.

"You two are just adorable," Mrs Witherspoon cooed, causing both of them to freeze. "Just like an old married couple, I swear."

Samuel Witherspoon, Mr Witherspoon's only son, shifted uncomfortably and inquired, "You two are not, then, legally a couple?" His eyes widened, and he continued, "Not that I'm implying that there's anything wrong with that, mind you."

"No," John answered quickly, cutting in before Sherlock could even open his mouth. "Our relationship is still somewhat in its infancy. We haven't been together for even a year yet."

Clearly surprised, Samuel straightened up in his seat and leaned forward, raising his eyebrows in interest. "Oh? I had just assumed," he stated. "I apologise, of course, for being so bold then."

Sherlock became rigid in his seat, and John felt a vice grip on his arm. Glancing down, John furrowed his brows in confusion before looking back at Samuel. After a moment, he realised that Sherlock must think that Samuel's flirting with him. John knew that he needed to set the record straight, if only for Sherlock's benefit. "It's quite fine. For a long time, people assumed we were together when we weren't. We eventually did begin to date. It's probably safe to say people are going to assume we're married as well, and that will eventually happen, too," he responded, smiling. Sherlock's grip relaxed a bit as Samuel sat back in his seat.

"Well, don't forget us when it does happen," Mrs Witherspoon commented, smiling sweetly.

Mr Witherspoon smiled as well. "Yes, we would be thrilled to hear such a happy announcement."

"I doubt it'll happen anytime soon," John warned, not wanting the family to get their hopes up. It was surprising just how much support they were receiving, even from a family who barely knew them. "But we will most definitely inform you when it happens."

Sherlock remained silent, and John could tell that he was carefully observing and deducing. After a moment, he leaned forward. "So your father informed us that you would be inheriting the company soon. I'm sure that's rather exciting," he said, forcing a false smile to his face. It still surprised John that anyone fell for that, but he supposed that he just knew Sherlock too well. Besides, Sherlock prided himself on his acting skills and his ability to disguise himself in plain sight.

"Incredibly," Samuel answered, perking up due to the change in conversation. "It's also a bit bittersweet. After all, I've been basically groomed my whole life for this. It's nice to see everything come to fruition, although I will miss having my father there every day." He looked over at Mr Witherspoon and smiled softly. To John, it looked and sounded completely sincere, but he knew better. If anything was amiss, Sherlock would discover it. Until then, John would keep himself as unbiased and indifferent as possible.

After a moment's pause, Sherlock reclined back into his chair and smirked knowingly. "And how much time is left? I can't quite remember," he asked. John caught the prompt; it was one Sherlock used quite often. If Samuel could answer the question quickly, it was a tell that he was eagerly awaiting to take over his new position at the company, thus providing him with motivation to kill his father.

Pursing his lips, Samuel eventually answered, "A little less than two years, I believe?" He looked over at his father, clearly seeking confirmation.

Nodding encouragingly, Mr Witherspoon responded, "That's correct. I'm planning to retire in a year and eleven months. Plenty of time for transition."

"I'm still worried that I'll wind up messing everything up and the company will fail," Samuel confessed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Suddenly, a feminine voice cut into the conversation. "That's because you're incompetent," it said sharply. John turned to find a very attractive blonde walking into the dining room. She was skinny and curvy, and the way she held herself told him that she was a confident woman. However, John could see the cold look in her eyes. She was only full of hatred – a look he had seen all too often in Afghanistan. "If you weren't incompetent, you wouldn't be worried about losing the company."

"Kristen!" Mr Witherspoon barked, rising from his seat. "What is wrong with you? You brother is perfectly capable of running the company."

Sherlock leaned over and whispered, "Sibling rivalry."

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" John responded jestingly. Sherlock frowned as he heard this and recoiled. Apparently, it was still too sore of a subject for them to approach. Part of John wondered if Mycroft and Sherlock would ever get over their childhood; he doubted it, knowing how incredibly stubborn both men were.

Kristen rolled her eyes as she heard this. "Of course he is in your eyes. He's _flawless_ in your eyes," she commented as she cut through the room. Her footsteps hit the ground hard, the heels echoing back in order to emphasize her walk. John almost immediately disliked her, which was saying something considering she was a very attractive female. "Just ignore your daughter. Not like she's important."

Sherlock hissed, "Immature. Needs to be the centre of attention. That's why she wears such loud heels. Needs to turn heads. To feel seen. Young. Just starting out in a business, going by her outfit. Moving about quite a lot today, going by her hair and makeup."

"Kristen!" Mr Witherspoon yelled warningly, cutting through Sherlock's deductions.

When the door slammed behind her, Mrs Witherspoon rose to her feet. "Please forgive my daughter," she murmured before hurrying off after her.

Looking from the closing door to Mr Witherspoon, John inquired, "Might I ask what that was about?"

"Kristen believes that she's always lived in my shadow," Samuel replied, shrugging a shoulder indifferently, "because I am to inherit the company."

"It's tradition," Mr Witherspoon cut in defensively. "My father passed this company on to me, and I have always wanted to pass it on to my son. That does not mean that I love my daughter any less. I have tried everything possible in order to make it up to her, but she's determined to hold this against me until the day I die."

John smiled sympathetically. "Family can sometimes be very difficult," he stated matter-of-factly. He knew all too well thanks to his impossible relationship with Harry and his parents. And every day, he regretted that he did not have a better relationship with them. But it was too late for John.

Leaning over, Sherlock whispered, "We might actually be getting somewhere now." John could hear the smirk in his voice, and he actually had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sherlock leaned back and inquired, "What does your daughter do, might I ask?"

"She's a lawyer. About to start her own firm, actually," Mr Witherspoon informed him. John could see the look of pride on his face. Even if she detested her father, he truly loved her. "She's an intelligent girl, and I know that she has a very bright future in front of her. I can only hope that that future includes her family."

John encouraged, "I am sure it will. I had to move out of the house as well before I came to truly appreciate my family." Looking at him in confusion, Sherlock opened his mouth to object only for John to shoot him a sharp look. Of course Sherlock would not understand niceties and lying in order to make someone feel better about a situation. Sherlock's jaw snapped shut, and he quickly turned back to his plate. Relaxing a bit, John said, "May we be excused? I'm afraid the long day of travel has taken is toll on me. After all, I'm no longer as young as I used to be."

"Isn't that the truth for both of us?" Mr Witherspoon laughed out, shaking his head slightly. "Yes, yes, please. Breakfast is served at eight tomorrow if you are interested. Please, do not feel obligated to come. Sleep in as long as you wish. Lunch is served at noon, and the kitchen is always open if you would like to grab something for yourselves."

Rising from his chair, John gave both Witherspoons a warm smile of gratitude. "Thank you for the fantastic meal. I am looking forward for what's in store for breakfast tomorrow. Have a lovely night."

Sherlock quietly followed him out of the dining room. "That went better than I expected," he said, clearly pleased. "The son is not nearly ambitious enough to kill his father. After all, he's too close to inheriting the company, and he needs his father there in order to keep the company afloat. But the daughter. Now _she's_ interesting. Motive, ambition, and intelligence. She is the one we need to be keeping our eyes on."

"And when you say 'we,' you mean…" John said, his voice trailing a bit. He figured that Sherlock was just going to drop the workload on him.

Smiling softly, Sherlock answered, "I mean me."

John blinked in surprise, looking over at Sherlock. It was unusual that Sherlock would intentionally leave him behind, even for the smallest of cases. After all, Sherlock still enjoyed talking John's ear off to collect his thoughts. "And what am I supposed to do all day?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Whatever you want, I guess," Sherlock stated, shrugging slightly. It was obvious that he did not care what John did with his day. "Whatever it is you normal people do when getting a day off. All those – boring, useless things."

Pressing his lips together, John inquired, "And what if I want to come with you?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Sherlock informed him, his eyes narrow as he glanced over at John. "Might be suspicious if both of us left the manor for the whole day. I need someone back here to keep any suspicions quelled. If Mrs Witherspoon or Samuel want to speak to me, you need to be there to shoot them some lie or keep them entertained. After all, we can't have them know what we're actually doing here. And in the extremely unlikely event that another attempt on Isaac Witherspoon's life should happen tomorrow, it would be better for a doctor to be there."

John frowned as he heard this; he would believe that statement when Hell froze over. "So you go gallivanting all about the place tomorrow, and I'm stuck babysitting the Witherspoons for the day and double-checking that no one dies."

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, clearly confused.

John wanted to object. He wanted to point out that he wasn't made for just sitting around while everyone else was in motion. He wanted Sherlock to know that he would not be able to relax until he returned. After all, Sherlock always managed to get himself into the worst sort of trouble when John was not there. But he knew Sherlock wouldn't understand, so he bit his tongue. "No, not at all," he muttered, heading up the stairs. "Just make sure to not get yourself killed tomorrow, would you? It would be rather hard to explain to them why I said you weren't feeling well and in bed only for you to turn up somewhere else dead."

Sherlock smirked as he heard this and looked away from John. The lack of a promise somewhat disturbed John; he knew more than anyone else just how much of an idiot Sherlock could be, even despite the fact that he was a genius. For the rest of the walk, they remained in mutual silence. They slipped into their bedroom, and John got ready for bed as Sherlock paced around the room. Once done, John emerged from the bathroom and removed his shirt. Immediately, Sherlock's eyes locked onto his upper torso. "You've gained two and a quarter pounds in the last two weeks," he noted, his eyes critically examining him.

It bothered John to hear this. Sherlock had never commented on his weight before, after all, and it was generally something he did not worry about. So to be called out on his weight gain, even if it was only a small gain, put him off. "Is that an issue? You only with me because of my hot body?" John said jestingly before glancing back over at his shirt.

Quickly, Sherlock snatched the shirt up and tossed it onto one of their luggage bags. He replied, "Oh, don't be like that. It's a simple observation. Besides, I am not the type to be with someone for such superficial reasons. You should know that more than anyone."

"I was joking, in case you missed that," John informed him sharply.

Sherlock squinted at him a moment. "No, you weren't. When I brought up your weight, your posture changed. Your fists clenched a bit, your shoulders slumped, your left foot took a half a step back, and you glanced back at your shirt, clearly contemplating if you should put it back on or not," he explained, motioning to each body part as he commented on it. John's jaw set in frustration. "Your weight gain is due to stress and lack of exercise since we haven't worked on a case since Moriarty's release."

"Any point behind these insightful deductions?" John inquired, bitterness colouring his voice. Normally, Sherlock's deductions about him did not faze him; he was not sure what made this so different, but it was. It was somehow more personal this time for him.

Sherlock sighed. "The same point I made yesterday: you shouldn't worry about Moriarty. He's my problem, not yours."

"How do you not understand that your problems are also my problems?" John asked, looking at him in confusion. He thought Sherlock would have realised this by now, especially after everything they had been through together. "There is no such thing as yours and mine anymore. It's just ours."

Analysing John, Sherlock pressed, "Does this include your laptop?"

"Only if I'm not using it," John finally conceded. It was only a matter of time before he caved in and verbally gave Sherlock permission. Not like _not_ having the permission would have stopped him anyway. "But no going through my personal files."

"I thought everything was _ours_ now," he pointed out.

"If you go through my private files and email, I am most definitely going to go through your experiments and notes about them," John threatened, knowing that would keep Sherlock away from his laptop. "After all, everything is now ours."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, clearly trying to fight a smirk. After all, John was not the type of man to back down about certain things. "Very well. Your 'private' files and emails are safe from me."

"Good," John replied, sliding into bed. He pulled the duvet up. "Are you going to sleep tonight? Or just stay up pacing around?"

Hands folded, Sherlock pressed them to his lips. "I'm still thinking about it," he answered honestly. "We – well, I – have made a lot of progress today. We know the mother and the son are not the suspects. Obvious, really. I cannot believe that he ever thought they were plotting against them. No one ever just _thinks_."

"If they did, you would be out of a job," John pointed out, nestling into his pillow.

Scoffing, Sherlock answered, "Hardly. It would probably give me more interesting cases to handle. Because I still would be more observant than most."

"Of course," John mumbled. He closed his eyes and relaxed in the bed.

After a long moment, John felt the bed concave next to him. He could feel Sherlock sink into the bed and cover himself once more with the duvet. Relaxing, John felt himself beginning to slip into sleep. Just as he was about to drop into the peaceful abyss, he felt Sherlock shift next to him. A hand tentatively reached out and cautiously wrapped around him. Much to his surprise, John felt himself being drawn slightly back into Sherlock. His hair was tucked underneath Sherlock's chin. As he drew in a breath to say something, Sherlock shushed him. He paused once more and frowned. That sinking suspicion returned, and John did his best to shove it off. He felt like there was something Sherlock knew and was not telling him. Something he felt like he could not tell him yet. John sincerely hoped Sherlock would let him in soon; he hated feeling like he was on the outs. But he trusted Sherlock to know best. He would tell him when the time was right. Not a second sooner.


	4. The Will

John woke up the next morning and rolled over only to find the bed next to him empty. Frowning in disappointment, John rose from his bed and glanced around the room. He didn't know why it bothered him; he was used to waking up alone, after all. But they had remained so entangled the entire night that John had just assumed Sherlock would still be there in the morning. Stretching, John felt his back crack in three different places. He looked at the clock and was surprised to read that it was almost 10 o'clock. John normally didn't sleep past 8. Quickly, he hopped into the shower and washed himself off before changing and venturing out. He figured the first matter of business would be to find out where Mr Witherspoon was, just to make sure that he was alright.

"Good morning!" Mrs Witherspoon called out as John walked down the stairs. She smiled at him. "Good to see you're awake. Where's Mr Holmes?"

Smiling back, John responded, "He's not a morning person, I'm afraid. Still passed out on that much-too-comfortable bed you gave us. Thank you so much for that."

"It was no problem whatsoever," she answered, waving a hand in a dismissing manner. "We just made up one of the guest bedrooms for you."

That's right; in a house of this size, they must have several guest bedrooms. This thought sparked another one, and John decided to do a bit of his own investigating. He leaned in and queried, "Might I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed, smiling pleasantly.

John asked quietly, "I heard from Isaac that the business has taken a bit of a hit. He didn't imply that it was anything too severe, but I do worry about him, especially since we're imposing so much. Is everything quite alright?"

"Oh, darling, don't worry about that. It's nothing too severe," she replied with a sad smile. "The company is regaining strength, after all. And only Isaac and I know about it. Isaac has been taking huge cuts in his pay check in order to keep Samuel in the dark. The poor boy is nervous enough as is; we didn't want him to know about the financial problems as well."

Surprised, John responded, "That was very… noble of him."

"It's nice that you see it that way. I'm sure others would say it was cowardly since he would rather cover up the issues in the company than address them directly," she murmured. She looked a bit sad for a moment, and John regretted bringing the entire affair up. Suddenly, she brightened up a bit and continued, "But the company has been doing better these last couple of months. We should be back on our feet in no time at all. So there's no need to worry about us at all, but it was very sweet of you."

John smiled weakly at that, feeling like he was lying for the first time ever. With all previous investigations, he had never gotten close to the people he had to interview under false pretences. Mrs Witherspoon was just a sweet lady, and John felt a twinge of guilt. But he knew better. This was for her benefit, after all; they were trying to save her husband. "And Kristen?" he inquired. "Is she alright? She seemed rather upset last night."

"Yes, I apologise for the outburst last night," Mrs Witherspoon responded quickly, flushing a bit. It was clear that she was not comfortable with the turn this conversation had taken. "She's stubborn like her father, mind you. They have been fighting from the moment she turned eleven and found out about the company. I don't really even think she wants it. She's just upset that her father was going to give her brother something that was so important and personal to him, and she does not believe she will receive anything nearly as valuable." During the course of speaking, Mrs Witherspoon appeared as if she had aged at least five years. "It's put a strain on the family, yes, but I'm sure that everything will work itself out. Kristen still loves her father, after all, she just believes he's shown favour to her brother, which is entirely untrue." Suddenly, she frowned and snapped her jaw shut. John looked at her in confusion, and she responded, "I'm so sorry. I probably shouldn't be going on about this to you. After all, you already have your own concerns, and there is nothing you can do for us. I just – I don't know. I felt comfortable talking to you, I guess."

Smiling softly, John responded jokingly, "Well, I am a doctor. It would not be good if people did not feel comfortable talking to me. After all, I generally have to know some intimate details about their lives." She beamed up at him in response, the tension seeping out of her body. "In any case, I'm glad you felt comfortable talking to me about it. Sometimes it helps for you to speak to someone else about it since it relieves some of the burden that you place on yourself. Anyone else, really, and they say that talking to a stranger is easier than talking to someone who you know and care about."

"I wonder why that is," Mrs Witherspoon commented, looking quite puzzled. "It seems that it would be easiest to talk to someone who you know and trust, right? Like a partner or a close relative. But some things – I guess some things are easier to say to people who don't matter as much." As soon as the words spilled out of her mouth, Mrs Witherspoon became a bit flustered. "Not to imply that you don't matter, of course. I'm just saying-"

"I understand," John reassured her, cutting into her rambling. "And should you need someone to listen to you once more, you need but to ask. I'm more than willing." He sincerely meant it; it was not just about the case anymore. Their family was being slowly torn apart at the seams, and John was sure that Mrs Witherspoon probably needed someone to confide in. Lord knew that John did when he had his falling out with Harry.

Mrs Witherspoon patted his arm affectionately. "Thank you so much for the offer. I will keep it in mind," she murmured.

John let his eyes drift around the room before he remembered why he came down in the first place. "Is your husband around here somewhere?" he inquired politely.

"I believe he's in the den," she informed him, motioning towards the closed door. "Knock before you enter, though. He's normally working when the door is closed and does not always want to be disturbed."

John nodded his head in acknowledgement before bidding Mrs Witherspoon goodbye and heading over. Very lightly, he rapped on the door three times and heard a gruff, "Enter." Sliding into the room, John found Mr Witherspoon staring at a computer screen. He glanced over and perked up a bit. "Mr Watson!" he greeted, pulling away from his computer. "Did you sleep well?"

"Incredibly well, thank you," John answered, closing the door behind him.

As soon as it shut, Mr Witherspoon's entire posture changed. He went from being open and friendly to nervous and guarded. "Any news then?"

"Sherlock doesn't believe that your wife or son are behind the acts," John informed him.

Mr Witherspoon closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief as he heard this. "And how accurate is Mr Holmes in his investigations?"

"In all the time I've worked with Sherlock, I have only seen him get one deduction wrong," John told him matter-of-factly. "He does a thorough job, Mr Witherspoon. You just have to trust that he'll work everything out in due time."

Nodding, Mr Witherspoon pressed his lips together in distaste. "And where is Mr Holmes now?" he asked.

John faltered for a second, not sure if Sherlock's instructions included keeping Mr Witherspoon in the dark as well. He assumed they didn't. "He's currently working on figuring out who is behind the attempts on your life," he replied. "I am to stay here and keep an eye on you. Should anything happen, it would be wise for you to have a doctor in the nearby vicinity."

Mr Witherspoon relaxed into his chair as he heard this. "Ah, I see," he muttered, almost to himself. "That makes sense. Yes, very logical." He leaned back and remained quiet for a moment, the glassy look in his eyes telling John that he was lost in thought. "I apologise for not trusting you two more. I'm afraid I've been rather on edge as of late. But as you can see, I am perfectly fine. Thank you for taking such a precaution. I sincerely appreciate it."

"Of course," John replied, smiling faintly. He almost added that it was a part of their job, but he realised how that would come off. They weren't doing this just because of the money, after all. Even if they weren't being paid extra, they would want to ensure that Mr Witherspoon remained alive. "And I take it that you haven't had another incident since our arrival?"

Shaking his head, Mr Witherspoon answered, "No, thank the Lord. Sometimes I wonder if maybe the person responsible has caught on. After all, I would have been in my senior year when you were in your freshman year for training at Uni, and we would have had literally no classes together since I received a Bachelors in business and politics."

"It won't matter if the person caught on or not. Sherlock will still figure out who it is," John reassured him, wanting to place their client's worries to rest.

Mr Witherspoon hummed noncommittally. After a moment of silence, he inquired, "Then are you two in fact together?" John hesitated, shifting uncomfortably as he heard the question, and Mr Witherspoon continued, "Strictly confidential, of course."

"I find it unprofessional to talk about my private affairs to clients," John swiftly answered, knowing that even Mr Witherspoon could probably deduce the proper answer out of his reaction. "I hope you understand, but the state of my relationship with Sherlock has no bearing on this case." Mr Witherspoon nodded in response. Just as John was about to find something else to talk about, his mobile phone gave a pip. "Pardon me," he managed, pulling out his mobile. He quickly added, "It's Sherlock," before opening the text message.

"Call me. –SH"

John fought the temptation to roll his eyes. Of course Sherlock wouldn't call him; he hated calling. So texting John to tell him to call Sherlock probably seemed like a brilliant idea. Dialling Sherlock's number, John muttered under his breath and listened to the phone ring. As soon as the call connected, John inquired, "What is it?"

"I need you to find Isaac Witherspoon immediately," Sherlock demanded excitedly.

John glanced over and responded, "I'm standing in front of him right now. What do you need?"

"Hand him the phone," Sherlock ordered.

Scowling, John retorted, "No! You already left me behind today. I'm not going to let you cut me out of the loop again. Just tell me what you want to ask him, and I'll ask him for you."

"Tedious," Sherlock complained, waiting for a long moment. When John didn't hand over the phone, he sighed and continued, "I need you to ask him about his brother."

Surprised, John looked up at Mr Witherspoon to find the man waiting expectantly to be addressed. "Do you by any chance have a brother?" John inquired.

"Of course he has a brother!" Sherlock snapped on the other end. "I wouldn't be asking if he didn't!"

At the same time, Mr Witherspoon nodded. "Yes. An older brother, in fact. Ian. We haven't spoken for years, though. Why do you ask?"

"I need to know whatever I can about the brother," Sherlock stated, clearly able to hear Mr Witherspoon despite the fact that John had the phone still pressed to his ear. John quickly repeated the request.

Shrugging his shoulders, Mr Witherspoon answered, "Not much to say, really. We are half-brothers related through our father. His mother passed away in an unfortunate car accident when he was young. A few years later, our father met my mother and remarried. He's been jealous of me since the moment I was born. My dad and I – we were like two peas in a pod, according to my mum. Ian couldn't stand it. As the years passed, he became more withdrawn. After he graduated college, I didn't hear a word from him until Father passed away. We went over his will together and split everything accordingly. Besides the occasional Christmas card, I hear nothing from him."

"Did you get that?" John asked.

Sherlock responded, "Every word. What can he tell me about his father's will? Were there any arguments about certain aspects of it? Anything at all?"

After John repeated the question, Mr Witherspoon explained, "Everything was split pretty fairly. Because I got the company, Ian was left with most of the other property. I didn't really mind, though. My father and I built this company from nothing. I could have just been left the company alone, and I would have been happy."

"I need to see this will," Sherlock hissed.

Blinking, John said, "You have got to be joking."

"Why would I?" Sherlock inquired, clearly not catching the sarcasm in John's voice.

John pressed, "Who says that this will has anything to do with this case? From what I can tell, everything was settled rather quietly. There's no reason-"

"_I _say that this will has something to do with our case," Sherlock stated, cutting John off. "I need to see the will, John. Get it for me."

Flabbergasted, John quickly answered, "Sherlock, I'm not going to-" Suddenly, he heard the click of the phone call ending. "Sherlock!" he called into his phone before pulling it away to see that the call had ended. He tried to call Sherlock back three times before giving up. He _could_ just wait for Sherlock to return and force him to handle everything himself, but John had this sinking suspicion that Sherlock would go about it in the most insensitive way possible. So the task now fell onto John's shoulders. Slowly, he turned to face Mr Witherspoon. "Sherlock is going to need to see your father's will," he said voice softly.

"May I ask as to why?" Mr Witherspoon pressed guardedly.

John smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "You could, sir, but I'm afraid you would have to ask Sherlock. I, for one, have no idea what he is planning," he stated matter-of-factly. "You just have to trust him. He's smart – a lot smarter than the detectives who would be investigating this case, even if you had gone to the Yard. I'm sure he does indeed need to see it, that he will be discreet and careful with it and its contents."

Mr Witherspoon hesitated, and John waited patiently for his response. After a long moment, he finally said, "I have a copy will in my safe. But I request that you do not remove the will from my den. It's – well, it's important to me, and I don't want it traveling too far away from my safe."

"I understand," John reassured him, smiling sympathetically. "You have nothing to fear. I will personally see to it that your father's will is not removed from this room."

Slowly, Mr Witherspoon slid his chair back and stood up. He turned around and opened up a cabinet behind him. A safe was set into the wall, and Mr Witherspoon made sure to block John's view of the safe. John did not blame him for wanting to keep such information secret, even to him. He could only imagine what important documents were in that safe. Besides, John had served for his country, which secrecy played a huge part in. Should the wrong information get out, it could mean the loss of lives and intelligence that they desperately needed. Pulling out a manila folder, Mr Witherspoon closed the safe, turned around, and handed it to John. He took it carefully, showing a great deal of care for it, before giving a reassuring nod.

"Sherlock will be back soon, I'm sure," he said quietly. "You do not have to stay if you don't want to. We'll leave it on your desk once we're done reading it."

Mr Witherspoon swallowed, and John could see the sadness in his eyes. "I lost my father years ago," he murmured, staring down at the folder, "but that's the last thing I received from him. It brings up memories and feelings that I normally don't dwell on. I appreciate your understanding. I believe I need to take a brief walk around the garden." Without another word, Mr Witherspoon crossed the room and left the den.

John stood there for a moment before setting the folder on the desk and opening it. He sincerely hoped Sherlock had a good reason to put their client through this. But knowing Sherlock, he had a brilliant reason why they needed to read the last will and testaments of one Mr Thomas Witherspoon. Sitting down, John gently thumbed through the will and skimmed over the information written in it. He gleamed what he could from the text: Mr Thomas Witherspoon's wife had passed away before him, the estate had been split between the two sons with only a little money going to the already born grandchildren and the only remaining sibling – a sister – of Thomas Witherspoon. John had been so immersed in his reading that he hadn't heard the door open again.

"What can you tell me thus far?" Sherlock inquired, his voice low.

John jerked in his seat and spun around to face Sherlock. "Jesus Christ! What are you, part cat?" he asked, his heart ramming against his ribcage.

"Bit of an overreaction, don't you think?" Sherlock responded, smirking. "I came in through the door. Even closed it behind me. I was hardly trying to scare you. You just need to be a bit more observant, John. What if I had been the suspect?"

John set his jaw and snapped back, "Then you probably would have attempted to kill me and failed, because the suspect has yet to actually succeed."

"Yes, that is rather curious," Sherlock noted, leaning down and examining the document. "Makes one wonder if their goal is to actually kill the man or to just scare him." He raised an eyebrow and flipped the page, eyes scanning down it. "Then again, they could just be amateurs. Or hired amateurs."

John listened carefully and frowned. "But why would they-"

"Ah-ha!" Sherlock exclaimed, cutting him off. His eyes widened in excitement, and he quickly brought the paper closer to his face. "Oh, that's interesting. Brilliant, really. Who would have thought? Everyone's been paying attention to the wife and children – they have the _most_ to gain, but that doesn't mean that they aren't the only ones who inherit."

"Sherlock?" John inquired, wondering what he had found out.

Quickly, Sherlock lowered the document and grinned broadly at John. "When I followed the daughter today, she went to this small house in the nearby town. I thought it was peculiar since no one there was around her age. It took me a moment to see the physical similarities between the daughter and the man she was visiting – physical similarities that paralleled with our client. That's when I realised that the man she was visiting must be a relative. Going by his age, I deduced that he was an uncle. And since the daughter seemed close to him, I figured that he had a falling out with our client. That might provide motivation, but then I asked myself why they would act now of all times. But this-" He tossed the document back on the desk and pointed at a paragraph. "-this explains everything!"

John read the paragraph. "… I bequeath my sister, Martha Daley, the proper ownership of my two cats?" he inquired in a confused tone.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pointed at a sentence and replied, "Of course not. Do try to keep up! This, John! See?" He frantically jabbed the paper with a lithe finger. "The terms of this will dictate that, should Mr Isaac Witherspoon pass away before his son takes over the company, Mr Ian Witherspoon will become the new present and CEO. He would essentially inherit a company worth at least a million quid."

"But Mr Witherspoon's will is bound-" John began to object.

Sherlock silenced him with a simple look. "This will supersedes any will made after it. Thomas Witherspoon's final wishes will always come before Isaac Witherspoon's final wishes. With the son getting ready to inherit as well as the recent recession, Ian Witherspoon is probably experiencing financial difficulties. Not only that, but he and his brother have a history. It would be a nice last laugh for Ian Witherspoon to have, knowing he kept his brother from passing down the company to his only son."

"Not everyone who has a history with their siblings want to _kill_ them, you know," John informed Sherlock, cocking an eyebrow. Sherlock glared at him. "I'm just saying that I don't have a hit out on Harry even though she has a tendency to grind on my nerves as well."

Sherlock waved off John's comment. "You're just not ambitious enough," he responded. Without another word, he shut the folder and headed towards the door. John watched him but didn't move. "Are you coming or should I face the killer alone?"

"Sherlock, we have circumstantial evidence at best," John responded earnestly, rising from his seat. "You can hardly prove that Ian Witherspoon has a hit or is actually trying to kill Isaac Witherspoon himself."

Scoffing, Sherlock replied, "John, evidence is what the Yard needs in order to make a case. I am a consulting detective, not an officer of the law. I can do many things that would hinder the Yard, because I am not prosecuting the man. Now are you coming or not?"

"Before I answer that question, I must ask what your plan is going to be," John said, rising to his feet. "Surely it's not: go in, make _wild_ accusations with no evidence to back them up with, and wait for him to confess."

Sherlock smiled as he heard this. "Have a little faith in me, John," he replied. "That will all happen, of course, but after dinner."

"Dinner?" John echoed, staring at Sherlock as if he had grown two heads. "You want us to eat dinner with a potential killer and his family?"

Grin widening, Sherlock answered, "Brilliant, isn't it? They think we're cooperating to write a novel about the average person's life in the 21st century for future generations. A couple of people did the same thing in America back in the 19th century, after all. _Plain Folk_ is what it was called. They're quite eager to be part of what might become a historical glimpse into this time period."

"You're mad. You do know that, right?" John pressed.

Sherlock didn't grace his question with a response. "Are you coming or not?" he reiterated.

"Sherlock-" John started again.

Sherlock cut him off, "Coming or not, John?"

"I'm coming!" John practically snapped back, heading towards the door. "Of course I'm coming, you git. As if I'm going to let you be alone with a potential murderer again."

Smiling as he heard this, Sherlock swooped down and gently placed a kiss on John's cheek. John's face started heating up. He was definitely not used to such random affections from Sherlock just yet. "I knew you wouldn't let me go alone," he whispered, his voice warm.

"Arrogant sod," John responded softly, almost tenderly. "You know, you are going to get killed one of these days, running off without me by your side."

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, let's hope that we'll never have to find out if you're right or not," he responded, opening the door. "As long as you're willing, I'll always have you by my side. I'd be lost without my blogger, after all."

"Good," John replied, a smile tugging at his lips. "I never thought I would ever say this, but: let's go have dinner with a potential murderer."


	5. The Mistake

"So," Mr Ian Witherspoon said as he sat down across from John and Sherlock. The living room was small yet surprisingly cosy instead of suffocating. "Shall we begin?"

"Indeed," Sherlock responded, smiling falsely. He motioned briefly towards John, who was sitting in the chair next to him. "My colleague, John Watson, will be taking notes throughout our interview so we can reference them."

Surprised, Ian Witherspoon raised an eyebrow and glanced between the two of them. Softly, he inquired, "Do you not need a tape recorder?"

Pointing to his head, Sherlock responded, "I have a very good memory. Anything that is of importance will be stored in there. I'll only use those notes in order to conjure a memory." He leaned back in his chair, looking surprisingly relaxed. John, on the other hand, was a bit on edge. They could be sitting across from a potential murderer. "So how about we start with your childhood?" he queried, keeping the smile plastered on his face.

"Well, my mother passed away when I was five due to an automobile accident," Ian Witherspoon began.

"I'm sorry to hear that," John cut in politely. Sherlock flashed him a glare, but John merely ignored him. It's not like Sherlock would understand the social intricacies of condolences anyway – at least, not after so much time had already passed.

"Thank you," Ian Witherspoon responded, giving a small nod of acknowledgement. "My father remarried three years later, and he and his new wife gave birth to my younger half-brother, Isaac. After that, both parents began pushing me to become independent of them. My father and mother would explain that Isaac was a baby and therefore needed more attention. Repeatedly, I was pushed away – told to go play with friends or by myself. It eventually became normal for me. When my father attempted to connect with me years later, I was no longer interested. He had never been there for me before, so why should he now? I grew up to be a fine man without him anyway. Once I graduated from college, I decided to really become independent of them. I lost contact with the family due the business of life and work. I married my lovely wife, Sarah, two years after I graduated, and we've recently adopted two daughters – Kelsey is 11 and Chelsea is 13."

Confused, Sherlock pressed, "That's quite an interesting decision to make in such a late part of your life."

"I know that I could technically be old enough to be their grandfather, but Sarah and I aren't capable of having our own children. I have always wanted to adopt instead, and it is only recently that she agreed to the arrangement. We compromised by adopting girls who were a bit older in order to make up for the age difference. But they are just as loved as any blood related children would be."

"That's rather impossible for you to say, isn't it? Not having children of your own, I mean," Sherlock pointed out matter-of-factly.

John could have shot him at that point. "Sherlock!" he snapped warningly.

"Excuse me?" Ian Witherspoon said at the same time.

"Pardon my colleague here," John cut in quickly, glaring at Sherlock in order to silence him. Luckily, Sherlock received the message and snapped his jaw shut. "He's rather the academic when he is in his element, and sometimes sentiment does not register as quickly as it should. I'm sure that you love your daughters just as much as any parent would love his or her child. Blood related or not."

Ian Witherspoon didn't seem to be convinced, but he let it drop nonetheless. "There's not much more to say. I received my education and became a lawyer. After a while, I moved back here to start my own firm. Sarah works as a teacher at the elementary school. We lead relatively normal lives. I'm still not sure that we're the material you are looking for to put in your book."

"Our focus is on the average lives of the populace," Sherlock responded swiftly, without missing a beat. "So this brother of yours – what does he do?"

Frowning, Ian Witherspoon answered, "He owns his own company now. Extremely successful in that regard. But money isn't everything. What he has in financial success, he lacks in family bonding. His daughter has become like our own. She even became a lawyer so she could work at my firm." Ian appeared extremely proud of this fact. "She's incredible. Honestly, I don't know why my brother doesn't see all the potential that she has."

Sherlock shifted forward, clearly now more engaged in the conversation. "Oh?" he inquired. "Well, I'm sure that your brother has his own reasons, no?"

"He was favoured as a child. It's only natural, then, that he would favour one of his children over the other," Ian Witherspoon responded sharply. John could see Sherlock's mouth twitch ever so slightly. "But I don't think it's right. So I took her under my wing. Actually, it was because of her that Sarah finally reconsidered adopting children."

Suddenly, the door to the garage opened. A familiar voice called out, "Uncle Ian?"

Sherlock and John froze and exchanged looks. They had not been expecting for Samantha to be barging in that night. Of course, they should have seen the possibility coming from a kilometre away. Swiftly, John stood up and said, "If you have company, we can come back another time. We wouldn't want to disturb you, after all." Sherlock stood up right after him, and they both turned their backs and headed for the front door.

"But I thought you were going to stay for dinner," Ian Witherspoon quickly said.

Sherlock replied, "No, no, we honestly couldn't anymore. Family comes first. I'm sure you'll hear from us again. Thank you for taking the time to talk to us."

With that, the two of them slid out of the house. Once they started down the sidewalk, John burst out laughing due to nerves. They had come way too close to breaking their cover. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, we can't keep pushing the envelope like this. We're going to get caught."

"Nonsense," Sherlock answered, chuckling along with John. "I would never allow such a thing to happen."

Rolling his eyes, John responded, "Of course not. Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes. You never make a mistake. Oh, except that one time at Baskervilles."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock lied, glaring at John challengingly.

John grinned despite himself. "Of course you don't," he muttered to himself, chuckling and looking towards the street. "I'm never going to let you live that down, you know. Even if you continue to deny it ever happened, I will remind you that even you can make mistakes. You're also human, just like the rest of us."

"I'm nothing like the common rabble," Sherlock snapped defensively, although John could catch a bit of amusement hidden in his tone. "Would you like to drive?" he added, jabbing at John's ego. John, who had never learned how to drive, glared at Sherlock in response. Laughing, Sherlock then got into the driver's seat car they borrowed from Mr Witherspoon. John headed over to the passenger's seat and slid inside next to him.

Sherlock drove down the street before turning around and heading in the appropriate direction to go back to the Witherspoon's. "So what did you manage to gleam from that insightful conversation?" John inquired once they were in the safety of the car.

"Not nearly as much as I had hoped," Sherlock confessed, sounding incredibly bitter. "There's a sibling rivalry there, yes, but the brother – he's not as ambitious as I thought."

After a moment's pause, John pressed, "So you're saying you think you might be wrong?"

"Of course I'm not wrong!" Sherlock responded automatically. "I'm just missing some data in the equation. Perhaps the daughter is the driving force. She wants her father dead in order to exact her sibling rivalry. Maybe she's using that same rivalry to drive the brother?" He shook his head, clearing discarding the idea. "He was so indifferent about the situation. He's got money, a family, security… He sees himself as more successful than his brother in the only aspects that matter in his life. So then why?"

"Maybe then it is only the daughter?" John suggested, giving a shrug.

Sherlock remained completely silent in response. John knew that he was lost in thought, and he hoped that Sherlock wouldn't wind up wrecking the car while exploring his mind palace. Looking out the window, John let his mind clear of everything. This was Sherlock's puzzle to solve, not his. John just knew that it would all be over way too soon. They would have to return to London – to where Moriarty was waiting for them to return to his game. Frowning, John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had enjoyed the time they spent here, and by no means did he want to return. Maybe he could convince Sherlock to leave with him. They could go somewhere else for a while – anywhere else, really. He chuckled under his breath at the idea. John had always been a soldier, and now he was trying to flee from a battle. Besides, Sherlock would never have gone with him.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock said sharply all of a sudden.

Jerking back to the present, John responded, "How can you demand such a thing from me when you yourself can't turn off that brain of yours?"

"I'm not the average person," Sherlock pointed out, smiling softly as he said this. "Besides, you're having utterly insignificant thoughts. Enjoy yourself. We still have some time here. At least one more night before we return to London."

John frowned once more. Of course Sherlock would know exactly what he was thinking about. Probably read it through a twitch in his pinkie finger or the pinch in his eyebrows. "We should-" he started to say.

"No," Sherlock cut him off. "Once this case is solved, we're heading right back to London. If we stay away for too long, we'll be sending Moriarty the wrong message. He will think that he has won his little game. I refuse to let him win."

John felt rebuked by that statement. "A day longer wouldn't hurt," he said quietly.

"You've never been one to run from danger before. It's an aspect of you that I came to respect. Do _not_ turn into a coward on me now," Sherlock replied, turning down one of the small country roads. They were close to the estate now, and John was surprised to realise just how long he had lost himself in his thoughts. "Prolonging the inevitable serves no greater purpose. Once the case is solved, we will be returning to London."

"Stubborn git," John muttered before glaring out the window again. He was now in a sour mood. Crossing his arms, he stared out the window for the rest of the ride. As soon as Sherlock parked the car, John unbuckled and got out.

"You're upset with me," Sherlock noted as he got out of the car. He actually sounded worried.

Normally, John would take a moment to appreciate the fact that Sherlock could still act human. Right now, though, he wasn't inclined to do so. Shaking his head, John said, "Don't do this to me right now, Sherlock. Don't try to deduce me or my feelings. I'm not in the mood. And honestly, I just want to be left alone."

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm. John was jerked around, and he looked up to see Sherlock gazing down at him, observing him carefully. "What?" he pressed.

"You heard me," John snapped back, trying to pull his arm away. Sherlock's hand remained fastened on it, and it was clear that Sherlock was not planning on letting John just walk away.

"You never want to be alone," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Even when you're irritated with me. Even when you walk away, it was always to go to someone else."

John replied, "People change, Sherlock." His voice was harsher than he intended for it to be, but there was no going back now. He was hurt, after all, and was not sure what to do. With Sherlock, John was never sure what he should do.

"But _you_ don't change, John. When everyone else leaves and everything changes, you're the one constant in my life," he pointed out, searching John's face. John wasn't sure what it was for, but Sherlock was looking for something specific. Eventually, Sherlock's eyes widened just a touch, and he looked hurt by whatever he had discovered. The look was gone in a flash, but it was enough to convey to John that he had whatever information he had been looking for – and that he hadn't particularly liked it. Very slowly, John pulled away from Sherlock again. He was released this time. Turning on his heels, John headed towards the house again when Sherlock managed to say, "I apologise."

Surprised, John looked back to find Sherlock looking like a lost child. "You're apologising to me?" he clarified. It was always baffling to hear those words come out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly, keeping his voice low. John glanced around to check that no one was there. After all, it wouldn't do them much good to be overheard. "I know you want to stay. And I know why you want to stay. But we can't. We just cannot stay here any longer than the case requires."

John nodded, unsure how he felt about everything. At least he was getting an apology out of Sherlock. It was more than what he normally got. He turned back around when he felt another tug on his arm. Quickly, Sherlock pulled John into a kiss. He lifted a hand up to cup John's face, gently stroking his cheek with a thumb. Leaning into the kiss, John hummed in contentment as he heart leapt with the sudden affection. After a long moment, Sherlock's tongue gently caressed John's bottom lip, quietly requesting permission to deepen the kiss. Although he wanted to give in, John knew that they couldn't get too caught up in their own little moment. He gently pulled away from Sherlock.

"Apology accepted," John said quietly before turning around. He licked his still tingling lips before wiping them off with the back of his hand. "Let's get inside. We can figure everything out after dinner."

As they entered the house, Mr Witherspoon emerged from the den and motioned for them to join him. Sherlock and John exchanged looks. They slipped inside, closing the door behind them. "Is everything alright?" John inquired, worried that something might have happened while they were out. As he turned around, his eyes fastened on the plate of fruit sitting on Mr Witherspoon's desk. His mouth began to water, and his stomach lurched with hunger.

"How is the investigation coming?" Mr Witherspoon inquired, fidgeting just a little bit.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock answered, "Well enough. Shouldn't be much longer before I can tell you who is behind this whole scheme."

"I'm glad to hear that," Mr Witherspoon said, relief colouring his voice. He caught John's gaze and smiled understandingly. "You may have some if you wish. One of the cooks brought it in. I have a tendency to lose track of time, and they always try to watch over me as best they can." He nonchalantly motioned to the plate of fruit, which had been left untouched.

Smiling, John replied, "Thank you." With that, he picked up a piece of apple and popped it in his mouth. It was more sour than he expected, and John puckered at the taste for a second. It tasted a bit off – like it was starting to go bad. John was honestly too hungry to care at this point. If the cooks thought it was good enough for Mr Witherspoon to eat then it would be good enough for John to eat. As soon as he swallowed the first piece, he picked up and ate another.

"Oh, I forgot to mention this. I tried to convince Samantha to have dinner with us. I thought maybe it would help with your investigation if you could get more than just a minute to talk to her and get to know her," Mr Witherspoon explained while John continued to eat. "She's quite insistent, though, that she was not going to eat with us."

Sherlock waved off his comment. "That's quite fine. I do not want you to go out of your way or do anything uncharacteristic. There's no need to be drawing any unnecessary attention, especially when I am so close to figuring out who is behind all of this. I will get this case solved with or without a dinner with your daughter," he informed Mr Witherspoon.

John nodded in agreement before popping another piece in his mouth. His mouth was still watering, more so now than it had before. Blinking, John bit into another piece and chewed it slowly this time. His saliva glands were working much harder than they should have been. "Sherlock?" he called out, feeling as if something was wrong.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock responded, looking over at him. Sherlock's eyes instantly filled with concern as he looked at John.

Swallowing his saliva, John felt his heart rate begin to decrease. His eyes widened with realisation as the symptoms started to click together in his mind. Poisoned – he had been poisoned. Almost instantly, he understood exactly why the fruit had tasted a bit off. It was finally another attempt on Mr Witherspoon's life; ironically enough, it had been thwarted by John's schedule and need for food. He wanted to tell Sherlock this, but the words failed him. He was confused and the light suddenly seemed incredibly bright. Immediately, Sherlock was right by his side. He was saying something to John, but John couldn't connect the words together to comprehend a full sentence. Collapsing, John hit the ground hard, and Sherlock fell to his knees. He yelled something at Mr Witherspoon before turning back to John and continuing to talk. Gradually, John's breathing began to slow down. Sherlock shook him harshly before laying him back into the floor. Quickly, Sherlock snatched up one of the pieces of fruit before smelling and licking it. John wanted to warn him to not consume it.

"Don't!" he managed to get out, the word so distorted that he wasn't sure that it sounded anything like what he was trying to say.

Sherlock looked back down at him and shushed him. Kneeling down next to John, he gently cupped John's face in a hand while the other brushed back John's hair. Mr Witherspoon said something to Sherlock, and John could feel his consciousness fading fast. Everything slowly slid out of focus, and all John could feel was the warmth of Sherlock's hand on his face. With a final groan, his eyes finally fell shut, and he slipped off into oblivion.


	6. The End (?)

Slowly coming to, John could hear the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. He groaned and stretched ever so slightly, making sure not to move too quickly. As soon as he opened his eyes, he closed them again. The light was far too bright for him to be able to handle it just yet. He slowly opened his eyes again and forced them to adjust, despite the watering and sharp pain. Blinking he saw someone move, and he looked over to see Mycroft standing up. He went to sit up when he felt resistance from the covers. Quickly, he looked down to find Sherlock, arms folded, passed out on his bed. He relaxed and smiled softly, reaching down and resting his hand in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock stirred slightly under his touch.

"I never told you this," Mycroft said quietly as he approached the bed, "but you gave my brother quite a fright. I have never heard him make so many demands before in my entire life. Do you know how many strings he made me pull to get you back here?"

John frowned, glancing around the room. A second later, his eyes widened in realisation. He was at St Bart's. He was back in London. "It's good to know he still manages to have a heart," he responded, his tone reflecting how dejected he was feeling. After all, the last thing he wanted to be was back in London. "Thank you for getting me here," he added as an after thought.

"You could afford to sound a bit more appreciative," Mycroft informed him. John frowned and looked back down at Sherlock. "Ah," Mycroft continued after a moment. "You don't want to be back here."

John glared back at Mycroft. "I understand that Sherlock cannot keep himself from deducing every wrinkle on my face, but I must admit that I expected more from you, Mycroft. You at least should be able to hold your tongue, what with being a politician and all."

"I apologize," Mycroft responded monotonously. He tapped his umbrella into the ground twice. "We're going to have to talk soon, you and I. It's not urgent yet, and you clearly need some time to recuperate."

Brows furrowing, John asked, "And when will this future meeting occur?"

"When I decide that it's time," Mycroft answered vaguely. He turned and headed towards the door. "Just so you know, Sherlock would appreciate it more if you woke him up so he knew you were alright as opposed to letting him get – what you might call – much needed rest."

John nodded in acknowledgement as Mycroft slipped out of the room. He then turned back and looked down at Sherlock, who was still peacefully sleeping next to him. For the first time in a while, John got to see Sherlock relaxed and calm. There was nothing to deduce and no one to see through. John's hand had yet to leave the mop of black curls. Running his fingers through it, he heavily debated whether he should wake up Sherlock. After a long moment, he finally called out Sherlock's name. Sherlock stirred again. Louder this time, John called out Sherlock's name.

"Hm? John?" Sherlock responded. He sat up and blinked several times before his eyes locked onto John. "How are you feeling?" he inquired guardedly.

John took a moment to organise himself. "Stiff, for one," he confessed. "Thirsty. Got a bit of a headache, to be honest, and no idea how I got here." The last part was only a half-lie. Suddenly, he remembered the case. "Sherlock, you have got to get back there! What if Mr Witherspoon-"

"Mr Witherspoon is fine," Sherlock stated, cutting him off. "I figured out who was behind everything before we left, of course."

Laughing, John shook his head. "Of course. So tell me: who did it? Samantha? Isaac Witherspoon? The butler?"

"None of them," Sherlock responded bitterly, clearly angry at himself. "It was Sarah Witherspoon."

John's eye brows raised as he heard this. "I'm sorry. Who?"

"Sarah Witherspoon. Isaac Witherspoon's wife," Sherlock clarified.

Confused, John pressed, "Why?"

"For their daughters, if you could believe it," Sherlock stated, leaning back in his chair. "She found out about Thomas Witherspoon's final wishes and knew that they would inherit only under the condition that Samuel Witherspoon didn't take over the company. I'm sure that she will have some good reason: her children need a proper university education or her husband deserved more than what he got or Ian and Samuel didn't deserve to have the company and the riches after how her husband was treated. The real reason doesn't really matter, to be honest. Once she found out that Samuel would be taking over in just under two years, she panicked. She wanted to ensure that there wasn't even the slightest chance that Samuel would inherit the company, so she attacked. She was clumsy at first. She didn't really know what she was doing. Later, she became a bit more refined with the hired hand to try to run him over and the cutting of the break lines. She paid one of the cooks to give Mr Witherspoon that plate of poisoned food."

"And, of course, with my awful luck, I just happen to be the first person to eat that fruit," John said, trying to joke a bit in order to lighten up the serious mood.

The look on Sherlock's face silenced him immediately. Apparently, Sherlock wasn't quite ready to start joking around it about it just yet. "In any case, once I realised the intimate nature of poisoning – throughout history, women have had the tendency to prefer poison over other means – it didn't take much more time to figure out who was behind everything. By the time the helicopter arrived, I already sent the local police after Saran Witherspoon. She was messy throughout the entire scheme, obvious by the fact that the cook alone was willing to give her up without too much pressing. They shouldn't have any problems finding evidence against her."

"That's good," John commented, nodding his head. Honestly, he was incredibly relieved to hear all of this. He would have felt awful is something had happened to Mr Witherspoon while they were away. "I'm glad that you solved the case before we left." Sherlock didn't comment. Instead, he reached forward and gently placed the back of his hand against John's forehead. "Sherlock, I'm fine," John said, batting his hand away.

"Stay still," Sherlock ordered sharply.

John sighed and dropped his head to the mattress. Once more, Sherlock pressed his hand against John's forehead. A second later, he lowered his hand to take John's pulse despite the fact that the machine was doing that very thing. John's pulse elevated as soon as Sherlock's hand touched his neck, and a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. After another moment, Sherlock lowered his hand and let it hover over John's, not quite touching it.

"I'm fine," he murmured softly once more.

Taking in a large breath, Sherlock responded, "You were poisoned."

"And I survived," John replied.

Sherlock snapped, "Yes, but barely!" John flinched as he heard the sharp tone in Sherlock's voice. The look in his eyes was murderous, and Sherlock leapt to his feet. He started pacing around the bed as he continued, "You were seconds away from dying, John. _Seconds._ And there was nothing that I could do about it. There was nothing I could do to stop it!"

And therein lied the problem. Sherlock Holmes was used to being in control. But the poisoning was something Sherlock had not seen coming, and even after it happened, all Sherlock could do was depend on Mycroft – which had to be a slap to the face for him – and wait. John's expression softened, and he called out, "Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped pacing. He looked back at John and responded, "What?"

"I love you, too," he said, grinning.

Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion for a moment before his face cleared with shock and a touch of horror. After all, Sherlock wasn't used to John just being able to see right through him. He pressed his lips together and looked away while John watched him carefully. "I didn't say anything about _love_," Sherlock commented, spitting out the word as if it tasted foul on his lips.

"You didn't have to," John replied matter-of-factly. Both of them remained quiet for a long moment, and John took a careful look around the room. "So we're back in London," he noted with a faint sigh.

"We are," Sherlock responded, his voice tense.

Chuckling under his breath, John tried to joke, "So our vacation is over, huh?" However, his voice fell flat.

"Yeah," Sherlock muttered, glancing at the door. "I suppose that is one way to look at it. Either way, though, we were going to come home either today or tomorrow. We have already had this conversation."

John said, "I know we have. That doesn't mean my feelings have changed at all."

"I can outsmart him, John," Sherlock retorted. "His weakness is that he wants everyone to play by his rules, and he doesn't know what to do the moment they don't. I will win this one, John."

Frowning, John bit back a retort. "I'm just worried about you, Sherlock. You have a tendency to get in over your head and never admit that it's happening! You hate depending on other people, and your ego is so large that you won't depend on anyone – not even me – when it comes to Moriarty!" He was shouting by the end of it, and John regretted it immediately. Calming down, he looked away from Sherlock, unable to look him in the eyes.

A long silence passed between the two of them. It was uncomfortable, and John was on the verge of screaming in order to make it stop. However, it was Sherlock who finally spoke. "I promised you that if I ever needed help, I would go to someone," he said quietly, his voice reserved. "I don't like making promises, John, but when I do make them, I never break them. Ever. So your fear that I will get in over my head and turn to no one is completely unfounded."

John ran a hand through his hair and flushed a bit with embarrassment. He had forgotten about that promise. "You're right," he finally admitted. Pausing for a moment, John waited for the "Of course I am," or "Why do you feel the need to state the obvious?" But Sherlock said absolutely nothing. Instead, he just stared at John. "I'm sorry," he finally added after another moment of silence.

Sherlock nodded and relaxed as he heard this, his shoulders dropping a bit. Walking back over, he sat down next to John's bed. He hesitantly reached out a hand, and John made no move to pull away. After a long moment, Sherlock took John's hand in his own, both of them warm and dry. John gave the hand a small squeeze and forced a smile to his face. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John's hand as he flipped it in his own and began tracing out the lines with his fingers. It was almost as if he was trying to memorise every detail of John's hand. For an hour, they remained like that – John sitting up, watching Sherlock, as Sherlock meticulously touched, probed, and caressed John's left hand and then the right. Finally, Sherlock stopped toying with John's hand and just held it in his own.

"Satisfied?" John inquired. His voice was soft, barely audible even despite the silence between them.

Sherlock paused a second before answering, "Hardly. But I doubt you would be up for anything that I have in mind right now. And even if you were, I would never allow you to go through with it. The poison might have left your system, but that doesn't mean you should be exercising so rigorously."

"Preparing a workout for me? It's funny how death can put your priorities in perspective," John responded, his tone a bit joking. "I always knew you were with me because of my hot body, after all. It would only be natural that you want to have sex with me after everything is said and done."

Without saying a word, Sherlock leaned in and pressed his lips against John's. He leaned back into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck in order to draw him closer. Opening his mouth, Sherlock flicked his tongue at John's lower lip. John complied, opening his mouth and moaning into the kiss. Sherlock immediately deepened the kiss, letting his tongue slide over John's. Instantly, John flicked his tongue back, not planning on letting Sherlock get the better of him. They were completely lost in the moment when they heard a small cough coming from the doorway. Pulling back, John looked over at the door to find a nurse standing there.

"I was ordered to come in and check on you, Mr Watson," she said, her face beet red.

Swallowing hard, John flushed as well. "As you can see, I'm doing just fine," he told her.

"Yes, I can see that. I sincerely apologise," she murmured before turning on her heels and scurrying out of the room.

Groaning, John covered his face with a hand. "We have to be more careful, Sherlock. We're back in London, after all. People might talk if you start openly snogging me in every public building," he groaned out.

"Let them talk then," Sherlock muttered, leaning in for another kiss.

Quickly, John stopped Sherlock with a hand to his chest. "We agreed to keep our personal lives and our professional lives separate. If anyone in the media caught wind of this and published it…" He let his voice trail meaningfully.

Sherlock followed his train of thought, and his eyes widened just a tad. "Moriarty," he breathed out, leaning back into his seat.

"I can only imagine what he would do if he caught official news of this. I mean, I'm sure he has his suspicions, but Moriarty doesn't seem to be a man who runs on mere suspicion. He likes his research, and he will want concrete proof. A picture in the paper would be enough," John explained softly even though he knew that Sherlock already deduced all this for himself. Saying it aloud always helped John more than it ever did Sherlock.

"Yes, yes, I understand," Sherlock said monotonously, clearly no longer interested in the conversation. "We'll head back to 221B Baker Street in the morning. They'll have no reason to hold you after being awake for 24 hours. Besides, I'm sure that Mrs Hudson will be thrilled to see you conscious and shuffling about the flat again. She was quite startled when she saw you yesterday."

Brows furrowing, John inquired, "How long have I been out?"

"Three days, four hours, and twenty-seven minutes," Sherlock said after a moment's pause. John smiled softly as he heard the exact number. "Not that I was counting or anything," he added as an afterthought, a hint of humour colouring his voice.

"Of course not," John conceded, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "I would never think such an outrageous thing. After all, you're a high-functioning sociopath. We can't have you actually having emotions, now can we? Anderson's head might explode while he's trying to understand that one."

Smirking, Sherlock replied, "Maybe I should tell him. It would probably do the whole world a favour if his head were to explode. Not like he uses it in any case."

"Something to look forward to then," John stated.

Sherlock responded, "I'm sure that we have more to look forward to than just that. Now get some rest so we can leave without any issues in the morning. I would hate to have to call Mycroft again."

"That's true love, you know," John commented as he slid back down into the bed. "When you call Mycroft to call in a favour for me, I know that you're head over heels for me even if you won't say that."

Shrugging, Sherlock responded, "Deduce whatever you want from the situation. I, however, will make no further comments about it."

John hummed in acknowledgement, unable to keep the smile from his face. "No matter what, I know you love me. That's the only thing that really matters."

"Stop being such a blabbering idiot and go to sleep," Sherlock ordered yet again.

Closing his eyes, John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand just a bit. It was nice to feel that warmth connecting the two of them. It was a simple gesture, yes, but it meant the world to John. Despite everything, they were still together. They were resilient. It didn't matter if John nearly got shot in the head or if he had to knock Sherlock out or if he was poisoned. As long as he was with Sherlock, John was willing to take on Hell and high water.

How could he have known that - in just a month and a half - he would watch Sherlock fall?


	7. Extra

The Three Things John Didn't Do After the Fall and the One Thing He Did

The Skull:

"What should I do with this, John?" Mrs Hudson called out as she held up the skull. She had been helping John clean up the flat after Sherlock's fall since Sherlock had left everything to John in his will. It was a project that John wasn't even able to start by himself nonetheless proceed with. Everything was still so surreal for John, who kept expecting for Sherlock to walk into the flat at any moment. Every time he tried to start, he wound up breaking down and being unable to continue. When she stumbled across him curled up in a chair and crying his eyes out, she took it upon herself to help him get through this. They made a pact, and Sherlock's death – no matter how painful it got – served as a solidifier between the two of them.

"Leave it," John said after glancing over at it.

Mrs Hudson frowned. "It's a bit crude, isn't it? I can't imagine why-"

"Leave it!" John snapped a bit more loudly than he intended.

Flinching, Mrs Hudson quickly set it back down on the mantelpiece. She wiped her hands on her dress and frowned. It was the frown she always had when she knew that John was being pushed a bit too far or was in too foul of a mood for it to be healthy. "I'll go make us a cuppa, shall I?" she inquired rhetorically before hurrying out of the flat.

John looked back over at the skull and felt his heart break once more. He was miserable without Sherlock there in the flat, talking incessantly about how boring everything was or about whatever case they were working on at the time. Hesitantly, John reached forward and ran a finger from the frontal bone to the occipital bone. He carefully picked up the skull and examined it. This had served as Sherlock's only friend for years – the only thing that would listen to him until John came around. Plopping down on his chair, John held it gingerly. His eyes started to tingle and feel warm, his throat was tight, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

"You stupid bastard," he muttered, feeling a tear roll down his cheek again. "You stupid, fucking bastard. How could you? How could you leave me here? How could you make me watch that? _Me, _Sherlock!" The skull stared at him with empty eyes. Swallowing hard, John closed his eyes a moment and shook his head. He pressed his lips together and gazed back down at the skull. "You took that fucking case because of me, didn't you? The case with the Witherspoons," he clarified as he caressed the temporal lobe. "You took it to get me out of London because I needed it. I needed the break –one last moment for us to be together without having to worry about the media or Moriarty. So that we could just be what we were always supposed to be, had I not been stupid enough to make us famous with my blog or you had not been stupid enough to take up arms against Moriarty." Taking in another shuddering breath, John responded, "And that money you made – that you had insisted on making even though you never cared about it before. You didn't spend a cent of it for a whole month and a half. Left me enough to keep me at 221B for the next three years without having to get a new flatmate." Taking in a deep breath, John let out a broken sob. "You fucking knew the whole time! You knew it, dammit, and you didn't tell me. You promised me! You _promised_ you would turn to someone when you needed help, and you swore that you didn't break promises. So why didn't you do it, Sherlock? Why?" His voice broke as he screamed at the skull.

"John?" Mrs Hudson called up from downstairs after a moment of deafening silence. "Would you mind coming down for a cuppa? It would do you some good to get out of that flat for a bit."

John hesitated a moment. "I'll be right down," he called back.

Getting to his feet, he gently set the skull back onto the mantelpiece. Maybe Mrs Hudson wouldn't understand it – why John couldn't let something as grotesque as a skull go – but it was something that had been dear to Sherlock. It was what Sherlock had turned to for all those years that John wasn't there. It was what he talked to when he felt like no one else would listen. When he felt like no one else would understand. If there was ever a time that John needed a friend like that, it was now. Patting the top of it, John shuffled off and down the stairs in order to drink some tea with Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock's Grave:

Every morning, John went out jogging. After Sherlock died, he couldn't go running about London chasing criminals anymore. However, he wasn't going out because he needed to keep fit. It was a moment of peace that John needed every morning. It was a moment to himself where he could just be alone. Honestly, it was a relief. He didn't have to keep a smile plastered on his face for Mrs Hudson's sake. He didn't have to deal with Mycroft's random calls on his mobile phone – none of which he would answer. He didn't have to worry about Lestrade randomly popping in to check up on him, although John was pretty sure that Lestrade did it mostly because Mycroft ordered him to.

And every morning, John would run far enough to go to the cemetery Sherlock was buried in. Every day, he would hesitate outside the gates. He debated if he should go inside or not. Whether he should go visit Sherlock or not. But without fail, John would keep jogging by. He couldn't go visit that gravesite just yet. Not yet. Maybe someday he would be able to. He would be able to look at those two words sitting on the stone and be able to visit what was left of his flatmate – his best mate – his other half. But it was still too fresh. It hurt too much to even think about it, nonetheless actually do it.

And every morning, John hoped that there would come a day when he would be strong enough to go inside. Strong enough to stand in front of Sherlock's grave. Perhaps even strong enough to tell Sherlock everything he thought and felt for once. Or, at least, a bit of what he felt and thought.

But it was never that day.

Nor was it ever the next.

Suicide:

He sat in the silent flat, staring down at the gun in his hand resting on his knee. Throughout all the shit John had survived, this was the first time he ever thought about taking the easy way out of life. But he just couldn't stand it anymore. Everything about this flat reminded him of everything that could have been – of everything that should have been. The promise of a future together, no matter how outrageous or dangerous it would be, had been everything hat John wanted out of life. With their age difference, he had always assumed that he would die well before Sherlock ever would. He never expected to have to deal with this kind of grief and longing.

Once again, John looked around the flat. The only issue was that he could only see everything that had been. He could hear the gunshots from Sherlock shooting the wall; he could see Sherlock sulking on the couch as he waited for another case; he could hear Sherlock complaining loudly about John's laptop; he could also hear Sherlock playing the violin as he looked out the window at London; and he could smell the different chemicals that used to fill up the flat as Sherlock worked on his different experiments. Everything that used to make this flat utterly chaotic was also what made the flat home.

The gun weighed heavy in John's hand as his fingers automatically shifted across the metal. So this is what it came down to – this is what it took to break John Hamish Watson. Tours in warzones, invading Afghanistan, watching his best friends die, getting shot, being unable to work as a doctor anymore, coming back to London only to know no one and trust nothing, and John had survived all of it. Every single last thing. But this had become too much for him. He couldn't handle the pressure any longer. This pain was unbearable, and John would just sooner no longer be able to bear it.

_But what about Sherlock?_

The thought crossed his mind without any warning, and John was puzzled by his own feelings. What about Sherlock? He was dead. There was nothing more to that.

_Doesn't he deserve to be remembered?_

"And what good would that do?" John yelled at himself as he leapt to his feet. "What good does it do just for me to remember him? No one else will! No one else cares! They all think he was a fraud. And there's nothing that I can do to convince them otherwise. I know. I've already tried."

And yet he knew better. He knew that Sherlock did deserve to be remembered – remembered by someone who knew him and loved him. If John died, who would speak out against the ignorant masses? Who would fight to make sure that Sherlock wasn't remembered as a fake genius? Mycroft wouldn't lift a finger. Neither would Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson… No, that thought was laughable. She could hardly be expected to stick up for Sherlock, no matter how much she believed in him. So the responsibility fell entirely on John.

Walking over to the table, John opened his laptop and pulled up his blog for the first time in ages. He typed one very simple sentence – one that embodied what he would live by for the next three years. Hitting the post button, John closed his laptop before heading back into the kitchen in order to make a cup of tea. He forgot his handgun next to the laptop.

Meanwhile, everyone who followed his blog received a notification that he had updated it. All they read was: "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." No one dared to comment on it.

_Leaving:_

"Are you sure about this, John?" Lestrade inquired as John slung his army-issued rucksack over his shoulder.

Had Lestrade asked him that yesterday, John could have been uncertain. But the night before, John had finally caved and slept in Sherlock's bed. He had been surrounded by Sherlock's smell. After crying his eyes out, John finally passed out with his face buried in Sherlock's pillow. That night, however, he didn't dream about the Fall – as he always had. Instead, he dreamed out the conversations they would have on John's blog while being in the same room. He dreamed about the thousands upon thousands of experiments that Sherlock performed on him. He dreamed about all the late nights going out to get Chinese after a case. He dreamed about the kisses Sherlock would steal right under everyone's nose – ones that no one would see but would leave John on edge for the rest of the night. And when he woke up the next morning, he finally came to understand that 221B – although filled with all their memories – wasn't home without Sherlock there. He needed to get out of it and get out of the rut of longing for something he could never have again.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he murmured. "Thanks for offering to let me stay at your place, by the way. I actually wasn't sure where I could go."

Lestrade forced a smile onto his face. "It's no problem, mate. Need any help with that?"

"No," John replied. He glanced around the flat once more. "Would you mind giving me a moment? I'll be right down, but I just…" He let his voice trail, knowing Lestrade would probably understand.

Nodding, Lestrade stepped back. "Of course. I'll be downstairs with the taxi once you're done. Take your time." With that, Lestrade turned and left the flat. He exited out onto the street and grabbed his mobile phone. Hitting a speed dial, he heard the line ring three times before it was answered. "Just thought I should call you to tell you that John accepted my offer."

"Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft's voice sounded out from the other line before the call was dropped. Lestrade sighed and tucked his mobile phone back into is pockets.

Across London, Mycroft was sitting in his office. He rubbed his eyes before hitting the call button on his mobile. It rang once before it was answered. "He accepted," he said vaguely, knowing the person on the other end would understand.

"Very well," Sherlock's voice sounded out on the other end. His voice was dead – just as he had been from the moment he jumped from that rooftop and left John behind.

Mycroft knew Sherlock was about to hang up, so he called out quickly, "Do you really think this is wise? Leaving John in the dark like this?"

"It's the only option I have. I have to keep him safe," Sherlock said with a certain finality in his voice. There would be no negotiating this, that much Mycroft knew. Sherlock would die before he would allow John to be caught in the crossfire again. Before Mycroft could say another word, the phone went dead.


End file.
